


My Name Is Human

by mythic_bitch_0



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-11-29 06:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythic_bitch_0/pseuds/mythic_bitch_0
Summary: Sephiroth works hard for ShinRa, but he hates going into the slums of Midgar - until one day, when he's sent there by his director, he meets a girl with a pink dress and a sweet smile that makes him question everything about his life: from his job, to his upbringing, to his very humanity. Sephiroth doesn't believe in love, but it might be the one thing that can save him in the end. Angst/romance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: contains past child abuse and explicit sex. Also Hojo being a dick in general, and an attempted kidnapping by Reno. 
> 
> This story takes place during Crisis Core, but the timeline has been changed to make it make sense. For these purposes, Genesis went missing, and then about a month after that Angeal and Hollander left too. Angeal dies right before Nibelheim. In this story, Sephiroth was told that Hojo is his father and Jenova is his mother who died before he was born. He was raised in ShinRa. Some of the story mirrors Crisis Core but some of the events/timeline has been altered.
> 
> Thanks to @sushi_vandal for editing and for the introduction to the band Highly Suspect, their songs "My Name Is Human" and "Lydia" were incredibly helpful. I could not have finished this without your feedback.

**"Black ocean, cold and dark**  
I am the hungry shark, fast and merciless  
But the only girl that could talk to him, she couldn't swim  
Tell me what's worse than this  
What's worse is all the coke  
The ice that numbs my throat if only for the night  
My muscles will contract, your bones will crack  
It's just a fact cause I am here to win this fight."

**\- "Lydia", Highly Suspect**

 

* * *

 

**1**

                The slums were full of monsters, and they needed to be cleared out regularly. Usually it was just a few errant Hell Houses and some Whole Eaters, along with the usual Cripshays and Deenglows. Normally, ShinRa sent out lower level SOLDIERs who were just getting used to their new strength to do the job – if they went overboard and damaged property, well, it was just the slums, anyway, and who really cared about that?

                Every now and then, however, Sephiroth finds himself assigned to do a job in the lower sectors. He could typically refuse, assign an underling, show the mounds of paperwork that constantly decorated his desk, but occasionally the higher ups deemed it necessary for him to go in himself. Whether it was because they really believed that he was the best person for the job or they just wanted to make sure he understood that his life was not his own, Sephiroth isn’t sure.

                It is ShinRa, after all.

                So when Lazard comes in and announces that Sector 5 needs his attention, Sephiroth begins by flatly refusing. “I am far too busy to go attend to janitorial duty,” he says, not even meeting the director’s eyes. He waves one hand across his desk, gesturing to a stack of documents written in what appears to be Wutaian.

                Director Lazard Deusericus sits down across from him, sighing. After years of working together, they have managed to come to an understanding, although neither of them considers their relationship a close one. “You’ve made your feelings on doing slum maintenance perfectly clear, although it _is_ a SOLDIER responsibility,” he snaps, although really, there’s no venom in it. “But this isn’t about monsters.”

                Sephiroth sighs now. “If the President is expecting me to go deal with scum like Corneo again—”

                “That was a mission that needed absolute secrecy, you know that’s why you were assigned—” Lazard interrupts Sephiroth, and then cuts himself off. “General. There have been reports of terrorism in lower Midgar. We believe it’s an incarnation of AVALANCHE working out of the slums, which has already cost ShinRa almost a million gil in damages. They tried to bomb the lower level of headquarters last week, but—”

                Sephiroth does not care. “Send the Turks.”

* * *

 

                Eventually, he ends up going to the slums anyway, finding it easier to just go investigate this annoying terrorist cell than negotiate and argue with Lazard, and then the department heads, and eventually the President. He knows they’re yanking his choke chain at this point, knows that he _belongs_ to ShinRa and the bottom line is that he must go where they send him. The thought burns in his chest, but he swallows down the anger and walks through ShinRa HQ anyway, trying not to picture the place aflame.

                Lazard offered him another SOLDIER as backup, but Sephiroth firmly refused. The only thing worse than doing mindless chores for ShinRa would be doing those same chores while dragging along an eager underling. He thinks of Angeal’s little puppy, Zack, who is all wide eyes and clumsy steps. Zack speaks about Angeal with a sort of reverence people usually reserve for their deities and their first-born children, and Angeal seems to enjoy the relationship he has with the SOLDIER Second. Sephiroth could never do that – could never put up with the constant talking and the incompetence. Angeal tries to remind him that’s how people learn, by making mistakes, but _Sephiroth_ certainly didn’t learn that way – and so on most of his missions, he is alone.

                As Sephiroth walks through Sector 7, on his way to Sector 5, he feels the familiar sense of disgust creeping up his spine. The slums are so _dirty_ , so broken down, so disgusting. The people who live here have given up. Half of them don’t even have jobs.

                There’s trash everywhere. It piles up against the houses and the shops, which are barely distinguishable. People clear paths so you can make your way through the slums, but apparently nobody thinks to actually clean them up. Nobody thinks to do anything other than move the garbage out of the way – to _move_ the problem, but not _fix_ the problem. It’s unbearably sloppy, and Sephiroth thinks it’s no wonder why monsters infest this area. Nobody cares about it, and why would they?

                A child with a dirty face crosses his path. Doesn’t it have a mother? Sephiroth meets the child’s solemn gaze, and then it speaks.

                “Silver General,” it—he—says, his voice low with awe. The child gazes longingly at Masamune before running back inside of one of the buildings.

                The Silver General is the ridiculous name that the masses call him – and much to his consternation, it appears that it’s spreading inside of ShinRa, too. They call Genesis the Crimson Commander, and in response to that, Genesis had his entire uniform redone in tones of red.

                Nobody is more self-indulgent than Genesis, and just the thought of his new uniform—that typical Genesis conceit—makes Sephiroth’s lips quirk up in a rare, subtle smile. Genesis is eager to play the role of hero; he is fully prepared to be adored.

                Sephiroth increases his pace, striding through Sector 7 without incident. He wishes the inhabitants hadn’t noticed him, but he knows he tends to stand out. Damn Lazard for sending him down here. Well, all he needs to do is interrogate a few people, check a few dwellings, and he’ll be back in his spotlessly clean office.

                As he crosses over to Sector 6, he sees a young woman in a long pink dress holding a huge basket of yellow flowers. She’s arranging them studiously, her brown hair hanging over her face. Suddenly, she looks up, tilts her head slightly like she’s struggling to listen to something, and they make eye contact.

                She looks different than the others. The other people who live in the slums look dirty, like they’re made of the filth they live in. This young girl, she transcends it. She might live in the slums, but she isn’t a _part_ of the slums. Her wine-red bolero jacket and long dress are clean, her hair is neatly braided.

                Sephiroth is crossing the street towards her before he quite knows why. She smiles warmly, but the smile is tinged with fear. He sees himself through her eyes for a moment – tall, cold, obviously powerful, and wielding a sword that could fell her in one blow.

                She seems to make a decision. “Do you want to buy a flower? They’re only a gil…”

                People are always trying to sell something in the slums. Usually drugs or alcohol, sometimes half-broken weapons and useless armor. The slums are full of people who are working a hustle; nobody works an honest job down here below the plate. The people hawking worthless wares are only marginally better than those who simply ask for money, for donations – and every time Sephiroth is down here, he’s been met with plenty of both.

                Nobody’s ever tried to sell him a flower, before. Has he ever _seen_ flowers down here before? Where did she get them?

                “I grow them at the church,” she says softly, nodding her head towards Sector 5. “Maybe it’ll cheer you up.”

                Her forwardness surprises Sephiroth, but he responds smoothly, sheathing Masamune. “No, thank you. I am here to investigate a crime against ShinRa Electric Power Company.”

                She doesn’t look disappointed, and she doesn’t push it. “I heard there’s a terrorist group around here.”

                “Classified,” he responds automatically. “Have you, or has any member of your family, seen anything unusual in the past seventy-two hours?”

                It’s the standard interview after an attack against ShinRa, and Sephiroth could conduct it in his sleep. He asks the questions by rote, and the girl answers each one. Usually, people react to him in one way or another – he’s used to the resentment of the people in the slums towards ShinRa, the layer of anger that simmers beneath their words like lava. They tend to react either with resentment, or hero-worship, seeing joining SOLDIER as a way out of their lives, a way to be a hero like they think he is.

                She’s not reacting in any way, other than politely. She doesn’t seem inclined to ask him for money or spit at him, but her eyes don’t have the starry-eyed look of someone in the Silver Elite. She just seems…kind. Composed. But there’s a hint of wariness in her voice, a hint of confusion.

                At the end of the interview, he tells the girl to contact ShinRa if she hears of anyone affiliated with AVALANCHE in the area. She nods, pulls her basket of flowers higher up on her arm, and turns to walk away after gifting him with one more serene smile.

                He is about to call after her, to ask her for her name, but he stops himself. She’s just a slum girl, anyway, and why does it matter what her name is? As she walks away, Sephiroth notices a someone wearing a distinctive blue suit across the street – not that it stands out, it’s a very muted, dark shade, but it’s a _specific_ shade of blue that can only belong to a Turk.

                The Turk has dark hair, pulled back at the nape of his neck. Sephiroth searches his memory for his name – Tseng, that’s it — and he realizes with a jolt that the Turk is watching the girl intently, not moving as she crosses the street.

                She looks directly over at Tseng and nods her head in acknowledgement but does not go to talk to him. Tseng doesn’t react, simply watches. Some of the Turks, especially that brash redheaded one, are no good at surveillance, they’re too action-oriented, too caught up in _doing_ to be any good at _watching._ Tseng isn’t like that – he can watch a target for long hours, days, entirely focused, blending in to the background. Nobody that Tseng is trailing ever sees him – not unless they know he’s there, or he allows them to see him.

                Sephiroth wonders what category this girl falls under. Does she know who the Turks are? Does she know Tseng? Her simple nod seems to indicate that she is used to him, has seen him before, but Sephiroth is unable to discern anything further about the relationship. Tseng doesn’t arrest her, doesn’t speak to her.

                Sephiroth finishes his investigation and dutifully writes up his report for Lazard. He is not told what comes of the investigation into AVALANCHE, he is not told if anyone is apprehended or any further investigation is ordered.

                He doesn’t care. He finds it hard to keep his mind on such mundane matters.

                He thinks of that brunette girl, and her sweet smile.

* * *

 

                Sephiroth rarely dreams. When he dreams, he remembers.

                _“The subject has gone for seven days without any form of sustenance,” he hears a voice dictating into a machine, a note of excitement curling itself around the words. “We are conducting physical endurance tests again today, to note the deterioration of his performance, if there is any.”_

_A slender form is pushed into the fitness room, outfitted with a treadmill and workout gear—and the everpresent stench of mako that hangs over every room in this dingy laboratory._

_It’s been seven days since Sephiroth has had more than a sip of water. He risked a drink of mako several days ago when the hunger pangs made him desperate, but even he, born and bred in mako, could not bear the burn of it and he spat it out immediately. He is past the point of hunger now, but his thirst feels more unbearable than ever._

_Sephiroth knows what a physical fitness test consists of, and he walks quietly over to the weight bench, which has already been set for his typical amount, and waits for the white-clad assistant to come hook him up to the many electrodes._

_Sephiroth is eight years old._

_He lays on his back on the bench and reaches his thin arms up to the bar, and tries to lift it the way the Professor had instructed him to. He pushes, but he can’t make the bar go up the way he usually can, it feels so heavy today. Did the orderly weight it wrong? Sephiroth feels a flash of panic and he pushes harder, because he knows the consequences of failure._

_He cannot lift the bar, and he hears the voice of the Professor, clear as a bell over the loudspeaker._

_“Boy, lift that bar immediately.”_

_“I’m trying, Professor, it’s too heavy,” he says, and his voice is small._

_“God damn it, boy, when I say sleep, you sleep. When I say eat, you eat. And when I say lift, you lift! Do I need to come in there?”_

_“I’m trying!” Sephiroth isn’t going to cry, he never cries, but he’s so thirsty. “Can I have a drink?”_

_“A drink? You want a drink, and you can’t even lift a damn bar for me, boy?”_

_Sephiroth gives the bar one almighty push, and it moves slightly, barely budges, but he can’t make it go up like the Professor wants._

_He hears snippets of a conversation. He’s learned that if he wants to know something, he has to listen to adults talk to each other, because nobody would ever talk to him. Some people are telling the Professor he’s pushing him too hard. The Professor is saying he isn’t trying. They’re talking about “readouts”, which Sephiroth knows means the little electrodes that stick on his skin, and he guesses they must tell the Professor how hard he’s actually trying at something._

_The orderly comes back in and readjusts the weight bench and has Sephiroth try again. Even though he still really wants a drink of water, he puts all his will into the bar and manages to make this one go all the way up the way the Professor likes._

_“That’s the regular weight for a healthy adult male,” the orderly remarks, looking up at the pretend mirror. It looks like a real mirror, but Sephiroth knows that Professor can actually see him through it. “And he’s gone seven days with no food or water. Hojo, this is incredible.”_

_“He’s going to be the greatest scientific breakthrough of all time,” the Professor agrees. “Sephiroth. Listen to me.”_

_“Yes, Professor?” Sephiroth sits straight up, hoping that the Professor can see how good he’s being._

_“If you complete the rest of this physical fitness test successfully, with healthy adult male standards as your minimum…and your readouts show maximum effort, I will get you a drink. Some water, and maybe even some broth.” The Professor sounds bored, but Sephiroth is overwhelmed. Water—maybe even_ cold _water, and broth? He’s glad the Professor likes what he did. Maybe he can be extra good, do extra good on all his tests, and even get some crackers or something?_

_Maybe the Professor will even like him._

_Hope blooms in his chest as he moves over to the treadmill._

_Sephiroth is eight years old._

* * *

 

 

                This time it _is_ routine monster maintenance, but Sephiroth agrees to go back to the slums. Lazard looks surprised. “This is just an infestation. I had already planned to send Second Class Fair in your place when you inevitably declined.”

                “I am following up on a few things,” Sephiroth says firmly, and stands to leave. He isn’t sure why he’s going back into the slums – he had been all set to tell Lazard no, and then the Director said “Sector 5” and suddenly he heard himself agreeing.

                As he walks through Sector 6, there’s no sign of the girl, and he tells himself that he isn’t disappointed, not really. He dispatches the Deenglows that have mutated in the area with ease, and he’s almost embarrassed that he actually _agreed_ to come down here for something so basic. As he walks through Sector 6 and into Sector 5, making sure the nest of Deenglows doesn’t have any survivors, he sees the steeple of a modest church – and there’s the pink dress, and the wine-red jacket, and her long brown hair.

                She smiles at him, and waves gracefully. Before he can stop himself, he crosses the street towards her.

                “Are the flowers still for sale?” he asks seriously. Her smile deepens.

                “Of course,” she says. “One gil.”

                He hands her a gil, and she selects a perfect yellow flower, gently brushing the petals with her thumb, almost like she’s telling it goodbye. He accepts the flower, and then realizes he really has nowhere to put the flower. He settles on putting it inside one of the inner pockets of his coat, and when he looks up, she’s tilting her head and looking at him, making perfect eye contact in a way that most people can’t. Sephiroth can’t place the expression on her face, but it’s almost the same as last time – a hint of wariness, a hint of curiosity, but mostly kind.

                “Thank you, General,” she says, tucking the coin into her flower basket, and then returning her gaze to his face, to meet his eyes.

                “My name is Sephiroth,” he tells her, because the eye contact feels too invasive, somehow.

                “Everyone knows your name,” she says, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. “You’re the Silver General.”  

Sephiroth reflexively rolls his eyes at the foolish nickname, and Aerith suppresses a laugh at his obvious displeasure.

                “I’m Aerith Gainsborough. I knew the Turks were watching, but I had no idea why they’d send someone like you,” she admits.

                “You’ve had a lot of experience with the Turks.” It’s not a question.

                Aerith shrugs. “Some.”

                “Most people with that much experience with the Turks end up arrested.”

                Now she looks up at him again, her eyes narrowed slightly. “I haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to arrest me for.”

                He believes her. She looks so sincere, she’s so genuine. She hasn’t pushed him for money, doesn’t even ask more than a single gil for her flowers, even though flowers are such a beautiful luxury in Midgar, and her eyes are so kind.

                Sephiroth is not sure what to do here. He has no idea what the Turks want with her, but he knows there is more to her than meets the eye. Most people are boring, especially the slum people – they’re so _basic_ and exactly the same.

                What is it about her?

                Sephiroth pulls out his wallet, and she immediately holds her hand up to stop him. “Oh, no, I don’t need – ”

                If he was intrigued before, now he is completely thrown. He has never met someone from the slums who turns down free money – _not_ that he was going to give her any. “I wasn’t offering.”

                She closes her mouth and a faint blush tinges her cheeks as she watches him. Sephiroth pulls out a slip of paper and finds a pen from one of the pockets inside his coat, and he writes his PHS number in his swooping calligraphy. “Please take this,” he says, trying not to sound stiff. “I am not sure why the Turks are following you – but I’m the General of SOLDIER. If you need assistance, please dial that number. I can help you, Ms. Gainsborough.”

                She hesitates a moment, and then accepts the slip of paper and tucks it into her dress. He can tell she doesn’t want to accept his help, doesn’t trust him, but she trusts the Turks even less. Ranked slightly above the Turks – not an ideal place to be. But this girl is unique, and Sephiroth is loath to let anything happen to her, to this girl who lives in the slums but is not _from_ the slums, who doesn’t accept charity, who manages to grow flowers in Midgar.


	2. Chapter 2

                 Aerith is tending her flowers, the way she does every day. The flowers are delicate, sometimes it feels like even the _presence_ of other people makes them wilt. But for her, they blossom, they reach towards the nearly-nonexistent rays for the sun. For her, they flourish.

                She assumes it’s because she’s a Cetra, although she isn’t calling upon any special powers to make the flowers grow. She doesn’t use special material or cast any spell. But then, most of her Cetra abilities are like that. There’s no magic, no fantastic feats. She just tends flowers, and they bloom. She listens, and she can hear the whispers from Gaia, from the spirits of the Cetra, humming just below reality.

                She’s learned to tune out the whispering at an early age – it was very distracting, and as a little girl it felt just as real as someone standing next to her speaking. As an adult, she only notices it if it’s something strange, something Gaia considers dangerous.

                Like that man – Sephiroth. As soon as she made eye contact, she heard the word “run”, clear as day, and then the whispers started. They were ugly phrases like “Calamity” and “abomination”. But he seemed okay – he worked for ShinRa, of course, and he was highly ranked at that, but surely not everyone at ShinRa could be bad .

                He wasn’t kind – no, he was a little too cold, a little too aloof – but he did buy one of her flowers. She smiles at the memory of him looking at the flower and then self-consciously tucking it into his pocket, and her thoughts drift over to the card with his number written across it. She had had no occasion to call it, of course, and she certainly wasn’t going to. It was thoughtful of him to try, but there was no way he could help her, and even if he could, Aerith doesn’t think she can ever trust someone from ShinRa.

                There’s a strange sound above, a thump, and just as she looks up to investigate, she hears an almighty _crack!_ and as she screams and jumps back, the roof of her church collapses. She realizes with a shock that a man is lying there – a dark haired man with a huge sword on his back has just _fallen through her roof._

                He’s mumbling something. “No…I was trying…”

                Aerith cautiously calls, “Hello?”

                He’s still mumbling, now only semi-coherently. Now that the shock has worn off, she sees the ShinRa logo on his sword hilt. ShinRa – and with such a huge weapon, the army, probably.

                Before Aerith even knows what she’s doing, she rushes to the front of the church and pulls out her ancient PHS. She pulls out the card, fumbling with the numbers. Oh, God, what is this, who is this man…

                “Sephiroth.” As soon as his deep, recognizable voice comes through, the word _run_ echoes in her head. She ignores it.

                “Someone just fell through my church, I don’t know, he’s wearing a uniform and a sword, he’s got dark hair – ”

                “Ms. Gainsborough?” he asks, surprised.

                “Yes! It’s Aerith, the flower girl! One of your soldiers just fell into my church! He crushed my flowers!” As soon as she hears herself, she wishes she could take back that last sentence –who cares about the flowers?

                “Black hair?”

                “Yes, black hair and a great big sword, do you know him?”

                “I’m on my way. Allow no one in,” he commands. “No one.”

* * *

 

                It takes less than fifteen minutes for Sephiroth to arrive. Aerith can’t even imagine how he got there so quickly, unless he was in the slums already.

                He strides into her church with purpose, his face deadly serious. “He fell through?”

                “Yes…he’s been mumbling, but he hasn’t woken up.” Aerith is suddenly nervous.

                Sephiroth crouches down in a strangely graceful motion. He reaches one gloved hand out, and for a moment, Aerith thinks it seems like he’s about to stroke the dark hair. Instead, he strikes the man’s handsome face, a ringing blow that echoes. “Fair!”

                A groan. Aerith is trying to keep her shock from showing on her face.

                “Fair, get up. We have work to do.”

                The dark-haired man—Fair?—groans again, louder, but he opens his eyes obligingly. “S-Sephiroth? Where am I?”

                “A church in the slums,” Aerith offers.

                “An angel…” he says, reaching one hand up to rub his head.

                She smiles. “No, I’m Aerith.”

                He jumps up with surprising poise and looks over at her. “Close enough. I’m Zack. Zack Fair.”

                Sephiroth interrupts. “Injuries, Fair?”

                “No…sore, but I’ll be okay.” Zack looks up at the hole in her ceiling. “I fell from up there?” He takes a few steps to get a better look at the hole, stepping onto the flowers as he looks up.

                “Hey!” Aerith scolds before she can help herself, and both men look to her in surprise. “Be careful! Usually people are more careful around flowers!”

                Sephiroth coughs as Zack stammers out an apology. He offers to repay her, when she demurs, he casually suggests a date.

 Aerith is a little taken aback. “Ah…”

                “Knock it off, Zack,” Sephiroth commands, extremely irritated for some reason. “Go back to headquarters. Finish your report and I will come debrief you.”

                Zack opens his mouth as if to argue, and Sephiroth cuts it off prematurely. “I am not in the mood, Fair. Return to HQ. Say nothing to anyone about this…incident. Fill out a report. _Now._ ”

                Dark-haired Zack shrugs and then heads for the door, shaking off the experience fairly quickly. Sephiroth and Aerith are alone now –

                _run_

                But somehow she’s even more comfortable than before. _Calamity_ echoes in her head, but she pushes it back.

                “I apologize sincerely, Ms. Gainsborough,” Sephiroth says. “Fair is a member of SOLDIER, and he is under my command. I will investigate thoroughly.”

                “Call me Aerith,” she says. It’s not what she intended at all, but it’s what comes out. “Thank you…for coming and helping.”

                “It is not a problem, Aerith.”

                They stand in silence for a moment, companionable silence. “That’s going to be expensive,” she sighs, looking up at the huge hole in the ceiling.

                He makes a sound of frustration. “At least two thousand gil. There used to be a fund, you know. To repair things that SOLDIERs broke. It happens more than one would think.”

                “SOLDIERs are strong, aren’t they?” she asks. She has heard SOLDIERs go through some type of weird surgery – has Sephiroth gone through it?

                “Extremely strong,” he agrees. After another moment, he smiles briefly, and then turns to go. “Thank you for calling me directly. You did the right thing.”

                She nods. His eyes are so green they almost glow. “If you need help, Aerith,” he says quietly, “Call me. I will come.”

                It’s the second time he’s offered, but she can respond no differently than she did the first time. She thanks him politely and sees him out, but she knows in her heart that no one can help her.

 

* * *

 

                The next day, a money order appears in the church mailbox. It’s written for three thousand gil, available for cashing immediately at any ShinRa bank.

                It is not signed – Anonymous is written at the bottom of the order, but Aerith immediately recognizes that sloping calligraphy.

* * *

 

                Sephiroth’s PHS buzzes, and he holds it to his mouth. “Sephiroth.”

                “I got the check. Sephiroth, you really didn’t have to do that.”

                It’s Aerith. At her voice – bright, but calm – Sephiroth feels an unfamiliar smile creep onto his face. “It’s the least I can do. The roof is destroyed, and ShinRa should never have gotten rid of the SOLDIER damages fund.”

                She sighs. “Well, I didn’t want you to pay for it.”

                “I was unsure if you would accept it. I’m pleased.” Sephiroth closes his eyes and turns over the report he was reading. He has been reading nonstop since the incident yesterday, trying to investigate the situation with Hollander and Genesis and Angeal. So much is changing, so much has happened.

                “Are you…busy?” Aerith is asking.

                _Extremely so_ , he goes to tell her, but instead what he says is, “Not right now.”

                “I was wondering, do you want to come back to the church? If you’ve got a little time that is,” she adds hastily.

                “Of course. Is everything all right?” he asks, suddenly alert. Could it be the Turks? That brash redhead can be so forward, he’s worse than Zack, and he would hate to have to kill a Turk, Gaia, the _paperwork_ that would be…

                “Everything’s fine.”

                After disconnecting with Aerith, Sephiroth starts towards the church, still mulling over his unexpected reactions towards her. He feels – _protective_ towards the flower girl, somehow, and he can’t quite work out why. Why should he care if the Turks bother her, arrest her, kill her? She’s nothing but a slum girl, but even thinking that feels strange, wrong.

                She is neither starstruck nor hateful. She is a puzzle, he thinks as he walks purposefully through the slums, and maybe that’s what has drawn his attention. Why are the Turks following her? Where is she from? What is it about her, that makes her seem above the filth and decay, untouched by the dying city?

                He doesn’t know, and perhaps that’s what keeps him looking for answers.

* * *

 

                When he arrives at the church, he sees Aerith’s slim figure kneeling on the floor, facing the back entrance. She is tending her flowers, carefully cleaning up the area where Zack had fallen.

                “They say you can’t grow grass and flowers in Midgar,” she says as soon as he walks in, apparently aware of his presence although her back is turned, “but for some reason, the flowers have no trouble growing here.”

                Sephiroth glances up at the ugly, ragged hole in the ceiling. “It must be the light,” he suggests.

                She stands up and brushes her dirty hands together, shaking off the excess soil. She tilts her head again, in that curious way she sometimes does, as if she’s straining to hear something. “They grow here because this is a sacred place,” she tells him, smiling warmly.

                Privately, Sephiroth thinks it’s much more likely to be that this is one of the only patches of sunlight in the slums. He harbors no illusions about the foolishness of religion, but he’s loath to willingly insult her – he does not want to be the one to cause her smile to slip off her face, so he nods instead, like maybe he’s considering it.

                There is silence. “You look sad,” Aerith remarks, and Sephiroth startles, it’s so unlikely. He’s caught off-guard, much to his displeasure.

                “No,” he responds, quickly, sharply, and then regrets it. With effort, he modulates his tone. “No, I’m not sad, Aerith, I’m just…busy.”

                She smiles and shrugs. “Tell me about it.” Aerith isn’t saying it in sympathy, she isn’t sarcastic or commiserating. She genuinely wants him to tell her what’s going on, and when she sits on the floor, patting the earth next to her, Sephiroth lowers himself beside her without really considering it first.

                Gaia, when was the last time he sat on the floor like this? It’s unfamiliar, but not altogether unpleasant. He thinks of what Genesis would say, seeing him sit on the floor like this, the earth smudging and clinging to his long black coat.

                Genesis. The thought is a bolt through him; it seems strange to think of such ugly topics as desertion and deceit in such a calm, lovely place. His discomfort must show on his face, because Aerith tilts her head again.

                “What is it?”

                “A…friend of mine,” Sephiroth begins. He tries to think of the best way, the least detailed way, he can describe what is happening, but he isn’t sure why he should be telling her anything about this at all. He closes his eyes against the intrusive thought but pushes forward. “My friend is…sick.”

                Aerith nods slowly. “Everyone says ShinRa has the best doctors.”

                Sephiroth sighs, almost regretting saying anything, but not quite. “It isn’t like that. He’s sick…mentally, too. A side effect of one of his—treatments.” Before he can stop himself, he says thoughtlessly, “He has abandoned ShinRa. And I may, too.”

                Now, for the first time, an expression of surprise crosses Aerith’s face. “Is it that bad?” she asks, looking into his almost-glowing eyes.

                There can be only one response to this. “Yes,” he says, surprised at his own frankness. “Yes, it is.”

                “I’m sorry about your friend,” Aerith says quietly. “I heard the members of SOLDIER go through some special surgery to make them…stronger. Is that what happened to him? Something…went wrong with it?”

                _Did_ something go wrong with it? Well, that was the one-million-gil question, wasn’t it? Was this whole thing with Genesis, with the degradation, just a mutation caused by his Mako treatments? That’s what Hojo would have Sephiroth believe, but somehow he feels it is something deeper. Something more sinister.

                “I’m not sure yet,” Sephiroth responds, his serious, calm voice oddly soothing to Aerith. “However, I fully intend to find out. This man is my friend.”

                “You will,” she encourages, struck by the way his deep voice is striped with pain. “I know you will.”

                She moves slowly, tentatively, but she touches his warm hand where it rests on his knee. His skin is warm, which surprises her, for some reason—he just looks _cold_ , like he should be cool to the touch. She places her hand on top of his and glances at him, like she’s waiting for permission, for his blessing.

                Sephiroth flinches, and then curses himself mentally. Years of the military life, years of leading the war in Wutai coupled with an upbringing in labs have left him more comfortable with combat than compassion, and the tenderness in her expression leaves him feeling hollow.

              The moment stretches, and the tension becomes unbearable. There is no way Sephiroth should be here, should be sitting to close to a beautiful young girl who smells of vanilla and flowers, who has the ability to look at him with naked compassion. This is not his world; this is not his life, and the familiar sensation of not belonging washes over him. He cannot bear to see someone so pure; he cannot meet her gaze.

             Oh, but he wishes—and how he _would_ wish, if he knew how to—

             Before he can finish the thought, he stands up, brushing the soil from his trousers unceremoniously. “I have to go back,” he says, clearing his throat. “I have to go.”

             She nods and stands as well. “Of course.”

             As Sephiroth starts to walk towards the entrance of the church, Aerith accompanying him to the door, that distinctive blue shade of a Turk suit catches his eye from the alleyway across the street. Most people, the unenhanced, would not have noticed it, but Sephiroth is always acutely aware of his surroundings.

            It’s Tseng again; Sephiroth can see the dark hair from here. Aerith notices Sephiroth’s moment of distraction and she follows his gaze, she can just barely make out the silhouette of a person in the alleyway, but she knows who it must be.

           Sephiroth can tell the moment Aerith notices Tseng, her shoulders sag, as if whatever burden she has been tasked with has taken on an uncommon weight. For this alone, Sephiroth wants to go and confront the man, ask him what the hell is going on, why is he targeting the flower girl from the slums?

           “Turks,” she murmurs.

          “I can help you,” he insists. “You must tell me what is going on. I have connections – I have authority.”

           Aerith shakes her head. She is smiling, but this smile is all wrong, it’s twisted with echoes of grief long since acknowledged. “There’s nothing you can do. Please.”

          Sephiroth is not about to be told what to do, not by some little civilian girl, but the faint note of anguish in her voice tells him to keep this conversation for another day. He resolves to do some research on his own, perhaps involving a discussion with Tseng himself, but drops the topic for now.

          “It was a pleasure to see you,” he says.

          Her smile is still foreign, but the familiar tilt of her head is back as they say goodbye. Neither of them remarks on the strangeness of the visit, how it was unfamiliar and yet companionable at the same time; neither of them asks if they will meet up again.

         They say goodbye. They move on. Both Aerith and Sephiroth have learned long ago not to count on other people, not to need anyone else around, not to wish they were not alone. They both are used to goodbyes that come without promises, they have learned not to expect anything. They take what the day has for them, and they do not cause themselves pain by wishing for things that cannot be.

        They say goodbye.

        Aerith finds herself near tears as she watches Sephiroth walk away, she is near breaking when she watches the Turk turn and go.

       Sephiroth walks through the slums in silence. He is stone. He is alone in a crowd; he is cold as ice.

       He is still as a stone.


	3. Chapter 3

                Sephiroth’s PHS rings. It is two a.m., but he’s still in his office. Of course he is—why would he be anywhere else, when there is work to be done, a war to win?

                “Sephiroth.”

                “Yes, Sephiroth.” At the grating voice of Professor Hojo, Sephiroth feels visceral disgust, and his fingers twitch as he longs to hang up the phone, but years of training have made him strong.

                “What is it, Professor?”

                “I need you to come back down to the labs. Immediately,” Hojo commands. “The Weapons Department has developed a very highly advanced new AI system for a robot, and I need to test its capacity to predict—”

                “It’s the middle of the night, Professor,” Sephiroth says irritably, only half focusing on the conversation.

                “You require three hours sleep for good performance, no more. You must _come to the labs immediately_ , I must test this robot’s ability to learn from its opponent,” he lectures.

                “Ask one of the Thirds! That’s what they exist for.”

                “I don’t need to justify myself to the likes of you, boy. Come to the lab, or the next month will be spent on the _inside_ of a Mako tank.” Hojo is pushing now, yanking his choke chain the way that he did constantly when Sephiroth was younger. Any time Hojo feels that Sephiroth is too independent, too complete a person, he always manages to find a way to force him back into thrall.

                Hojo probably could not physically _force_ Sephiroth anywhere now, not with him as enhanced as he is, and every Mako bath only makes him stronger. But Sephiroth knows that their relationship cannot continue, he knows that eventually he will be _unable_ to continue to acquiesce, unable to bow. Hojo will never accept Sephiroth as his equal, and Sephiroth cannot live with Hojo as his superior.

                It is coming to a head; it is ending. And Sephiroth, knowing them both the way he does, sees bloodshed in the future.

                In the end, Sephiroth makes an appearance at the lab, unwilling to force a conflict when he has so much that needs to be done. He slays the cutting-edge robot in minutes, perhaps a little more forcefully than the situation called for.

                “Damn it, Sephiroth, the beauty of this robot is its AI. It didn’t even get a chance to learn!” Scarlet from Weapons is angry, glaring at the smoldering ruins of what was probably months of hard work.

                “Never show your enemies your strength,” he responds, but he is staring at Professor Hojo.

* * *

 

Sephiroth rarely dreams. But sometimes at night, he remembers.

                _He is eleven years old._

_“The subject has now gone without sleep for five days,” he hears the Professor drone into in that stupid recording machine. “His reflexes have shown some deterioration, he appears to require a small amount of sleep per twenty-four hour period for maximum capability, although the sleep deprivation affect is not as profound as initially expected.”_

_Sephiroth is sitting in the physical fitness room. No one will spar with him anymore, so he mostly fights whatever robot the Professor brings in, or does his exercises alone. When he was younger, they brought members of the ShinRa military in, but they’ve all heard about him now, and no one wants to do it._

_“Are you tired, son?” The Professor has the machine clicked off, and although his face is blank, he called Sephiroth “son”. Every time Sephiroth heard that as a child, he felt a horrible bolt of hope, but now he mostly just feels bored._

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Do you want to sleep?”_

_Sephiroth shrugs. It doesn’t matter what he wants and doesn’t want. If the Professor lets him sleep, that’s great because he really is quite tired. If not—well, they probably don’t want to kill him, so another sleepless night probably won’t do that._

_“Don’t shrug at me, boy. Describe it. Do you feel tired—is your body tired? Are your eyes heavy? This is important!”_

_“I feel tired,” Sephiroth states dutifully. “My muscles feel weaker than usual. My eyes are heavy, although I can still do my regular physical fitness.”_

_The Professor is scribbling things down._

_“Why are we doing this?” Sephiroth asks, looking at the rack of weapons. He’d much rather swing around a new sword than do this boring experiment, especially if they aren’t going to let him sleep._

_“What?”_

_“Usually we just do the normal tests with the food and the water and the, uh, the pain.” Sephiroth is suddenly thinking maybe he shouldn’t have asked. He hates the pain-tolerance tests, maybe he shouldn’t draw the Professor’s attention to them. They’ll do it if the Professor decides to, he knows. There’s nothing he can do._

_“Have you ever heard of Wutai, boy?”_

_Sephiroth nods slowly. “ShinRa is at war with them…they won’t give ShinRa what is rightfully theirs. They’ve stolen mako, right?”_

_“The battles there are grueling. Soldiers there don’t get to sleep for days on end sometimes—they lose out on sleep and food, they get horrible injuries. I need you to be ready, boy, because you’re going to win this war for us. You’re going to be my scientific miracle!” the Professor crows, finishing up his notes._

_Sephiroth doesn’t want to win a war for anyone, but it’s gotta be better than this. At least if he’s winning a war, maybe he can make himself really useful—live somewhere outside of the lab, go outside, do what he wants sometimes._

_“There’ll be a new program based on you,” the Professor tells him. “Enhanced fighters—not as enhanced as you, of course, because your case is unique. But the mako will give us all we need to win this war, and any war we ever wish!”_

_Sephiroth stands. He’s a little shaky from the sleep deprivation, but overall he’s okay. They’ve been talking about creating more “like him” lately, and he isn’t sure how he feels about that—or if he feels any way at all._

_“I think I’ll call them SOLDIERs,” the Professor muses as Sephiroth picks up a katana, scaled down for size, and gives it a few experimental swings._

_This sword is great. The SOLDIER stuff is boring, Sephiroth can’t influence the Professor one way or another so he doesn’t have anything to say about it. But he likes this sword a lot—it’s way faster than the heavy, two-handed ones, although it seems to him that it should be longer._

_He thinks about setting the Professor on fire, but decides to just do the physical fitness test. Wutai. Maybe it’ll be warm._

* * *

Sephiroth is walking through the SOLDIER floor when he hears someone calling that the assignment sheet has been updated. Sephiroth has not had a listed assignment in years; he is far too valuable for the routine items that are listed. As he passes a bunch of Seconds and Thirds, however, he hears his name being murmured.

                He turns around quickly to see Zack Fair, squinting at the assignment sheet, trying to will it to make sense, probably. The cluster around him backs away quickly as Sephiroth approaches.

                “What?” he asks.

                Fair shrugs. “You’ve got a new assignment, I think.”

                “God damn it, Fair, this is basic literacy,” he spits. Most people quake at even the semblance of Sephiroth’s anger, but Fair just steps back and gestures at the paper. Sephiroth rips it off the wall and finds himself listed, plain as day.

                **Sector Five Maintenance – General Sephiroth**

                He’s appalled. He hears Fair laugh in his good-natured way and say, “Well, at least you’re already down there enough!”

                Someone in the crowd crows in surprise. “Sephiroth! In the slums!”

                Without thinking twice, Sephiroth drops the sheet of paper and grabs Fair by the neck. The frustration over the last few days has been building, the pressure near boiling inside of him, and it’s so _good_ to take it out on someone that he slams him against the wall experimentally. Even better.

                “Hey!” Zack shouts, but he doesn’t make any move to defend himself. The worry in his eyes is calming to Sephiroth, _this_ he is in control of. Zack doesn’t dare strike back against General Sephiroth. _This_ is as it should be.

                “Knock it off! _Who_ is fighting?” comes Lazard’s voice, high and cold as he pushes his way through the crowd. He steps back in shock. “ _Sephiroth?_ Have you gone mad?”

                “Have _you_?” he cries, dropping Zack and rounding on Lazard. “Routine maintenance? I have _a war to win!_ ”

                Lazard snaps his fingers and gestures and all the SOLDIERs disperse immediately. Any one of them could take Lazard in a fight, but his authority is absolute amongst SOLDIERs. “So you stage a riot in the hallway? What happened to storming into my office and demanding to be taken off the list like a civilized person?”

                Sephiroth sees himself through Lazard’s eyes for a moment, and he feels a rush of regret. “I don’t—”

                “I bring you assignments all the time and you turn them down. Goddamn it, Sephiroth, what is going on?”

                Sephiroth sees Hojo’s face, superimposed over Lazard’s furious countenance. He hears his grating, condescending tone. He imagines himself in chains made of Mako.

                “I can’t have you going to Wutai anymore, Sephiroth,” Lazard says softly.

                Sephiroth thinks of all the thousands of hours he has already spent in Wutai, all of the victories he has won for ShinRa, the flash of pleasure that comes of seeing a plan perfectly executed. He says nothing.

                “The situation here is becoming more delicate. I need you to stay here.” Lazard lowers his voice. “Hollander has disappeared. And so has Angeal.”

                When Sephiroth is stressed, he is still as a statue, still as stone. Not a muscle twitches as he listens to Lazard detail Angeal’s disappearance—no, _defection_ —and how they are certain it’s related to Genesis.

                Genesis was Sephiroth’s friend, but he was always mercurial, temperamental. It was not outside of the realm of possibility for Genesis to overreact to a situation and resolve it in the most dramatic way possible, full of anger and fire. But Angeal? Steady, strong Angeal?

                “I need you to find them and neutralize the situation,” Lazard says. “I know they were your friends—but it’s a very delicate situation.” 

Angeal, who knows everything about Hojo even though Sephiroth never told him. Angeal, who talks about dreams and honor. Angeal, who loves SOLDIER.

Sephiroth pictures the way Angeal used to stand next to him, shoulder to shoulder, the maximum amount of physical contact that Sephiroth was comfortable with. He thinks about Angeal’s lectures, how self-righteous but also so good natured and kind they were. He remembers the surprise and delight on Angeal’s face whenever Angeal was able to land a blow on Sephiroth, and he remembers the open expression of pride Angeal wore whenever he observed one of Sephiroth’s fights.

                “You don’t have to do the routine patrols,” Lazard adds. “I only had that in place of Wutai, so—”

                “Enough. I’ll do it,” Sephiroth snaps. “I’ll stay.”

                “I’ll take you off the list,” Lazard says, leaning down to pick up the sheet of paper where Sephiroth had dropped it.

                “I’ll do that, too.”

                Sephiroth turns and walks away without another word. Damn Lazard. Damn ShinRa. Damn Midgar.  Sometimes, Sephiroth just wants to destroy this whole damned planet.

* * *

 

                Sector 5 – and slums surrounding it – have never been so safe as they are with General Sephiroth patrolling them. Not a monster in sight, since Sephiroth is such a perfectionist, not only does he slay the monsters, but he tracks them to their nests as well, to destroy the young, destroy the eggs, destroy the _habitat_ if need be.

                He is mercilessly efficient, and he’s noticed slum people smiling at him more as he passes through them. He can’t imagine why, unless even the slum-born have some gratitude in them.

                The highlight of Sephiroth’s day, on the days that he walks through the slums, is seeing the flower girl, Aerith. He never seeks her out, he tries to stay away from her church, but on the days that he sees her on the streets, he never fails to talk to her for at least a few minutes.

                She seems more comfortable with him these days, and she gives him flowers for free. Sephiroth throws them away when he gets home, of course, what else would he do with flowers? But ever since he bought that first one, she seems to think he really loves them, so he accepts each one with a smile and tucks it into his inner pocket.

                Sephiroth’s coat smells of flowers. It smells of Aerith, and he really must get it dry cleaned, but somehow the item keeps getting left off his mental to-do list.

                As he walks through Sector 5 one day, he hears Aerith’s voice. His hearing is excellent, he almost always hears her before he sees the flash of pink. It’s her voice, all right, but her words sound strangled, the syllables overstuffed with pain. Another voice, harsh, answers her, and before Sephiroth can even think twice he breaks into a run, rushing unerringly to the inside of her church.

                Aerith is standing behind the flowerbed, holding out her hands in a “stop” motion, apparently pleading with three ShinRa infantryman and a redheaded Turk. “Please don’t!” she cries. “Please don’t! I’m not going anywhere! I’ll stay right here!”

                Sephiroth uses his Wutai voice, his General of the Army voice: “What. The. _Fuck_. Is. Happening.”

                At the harsh, instantly commanding tone, the troops turn around and immediately hold their hands up in surrender. “General Sephiroth!” they chorus.

                Aerith bursts into tears. “Oh, Gaia, thank you. Thank you.”

                At Aerith’s weeping, Sephiroth doesn’t care if he has to kill all four men where they stand. The Turk looks at him with a smile. “Hey, man, this is Turk business. Military’s got no authority here.”

                In response, Sephiroth draws Masamune.

                “Whoa, whoa. C’mon, man, we’re on the same side. I’m Reno. Sure, you know me.” Reno nods his head seriously. “I’m here on Turk business.”

                “Which is what?”

                “You been hanging around here long enough,” Reno says. Is this man actually trying to tell him what to do? Is the Turk actually stupid enough to challenge Sephiroth? “This little girl is property of ShinRa, Inc.”

                “No, I’m not!” Aerith shouts.

                “Shut up!” Reno shoots back at her. “The Turks have been very patient with you…I think it’s ’cause Tseng has a soft spot for you, ya know…but it’s time to go.”

                “I swear, I’ll stay right here in Midgar. I won’t even leave Sector 5. I’m not going _anywhere_ ,” she begs.

                “Shut up!” Reno repeats.

                “ _Everybody_ stop talking,” Sephiroth commands. Aerith looks surprised but she closes her mouth, and everyone falls silent.

                “This investigation is going to be looked into by the upper division of the ShinRa military,” Sephiroth decides. “You are all relieved of your duties, effective immediately.”

                The infantrymen nod and begin to put their weapons away, but Reno shakes his head. “Turks don’t answer to military,” he reminds Sephiroth, and Sephiroth is incensed when Reno winks at him. “Sorry, General.”

                “Reno, stand down immediately before I kill you and report it to ShinRa as a tragic accident. What’s the mortality rate of Turks these days? 40 percent, 50?” Sephiroth is fully prepared to kill Reno, but he knows he won’t have to. He can sense a battle the way animals can sense a storm.

                Reno rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna report this to Tseng. To _Veld._ ”

                “Then report it. Just _leave_.”

                The Turk sullenly gestures for the infantrymen to walk out the front of the building; they have to walk past Sephiroth to do so. The helmeted infantrymen don’t say a word, they don’t meet Sephiroth’s eyes as they walk single file out of the church. Reno is last, and Sephiroth knows he’s going to say something, to try to provoke him, someone this immature is incapable of just backing down…

                “Enjoy fucking the Ancient,” Reno hisses as he walks out. “I’ll try to call off surveillance for you guys. Unless you prefer an audience.”

                Sephiroth does not allow any emotion on his face, he is perfectly impassive as he reaches out and grasps Reno’s wrist. Before Reno can say a word, before he can even _react,_ Sephiroth brings his knee up and with one forceful blow, smashes Reno’s head between his hand and his knee and crushes his nose.

                “If I see you bothering this girl again I will kill you,” Sephiroth promises, his voice calm as a summer day. “Don’t fuck with me, Reno. You don’t know how.”

                Blood is pouring down the Turk’s face, hot red to match his hair, but he doesn’t make a sound, not a whimper, not a squeal of pain. Instead bright hatred blooms in his eyes, and he silently leaves the church.

                Aerith is still standing in the rear of the church, her back pressed against the wall. Her eyes are huge, her face pale as death, and oh, she’s shaking like a leaf. “Thank you,” she whispers.

                Sephiroth is by her side in a moment, Masamune sheathed. “Enough of this foolishness,” he says, trying to sound kind, but the imperious tone in his voice is always there. “Tell me what is happening.”

                She nods. “N-not here. Let’s go to the playground.”

                “To the what?”

                “The _playground_ ,” she says, and she seems a little steadier on her feet. Quick recovery—she’s much tougher than she looks. “Sephiroth, surely you’ve been to a playground.”

                “I hope you are not referring to the Sector 6 wreckage,” he says seriously. “That is _not_ a playground—it’s filthy.”

                “Everything is filthy in the slums,” Aerith says, a hint of her normal cheerful tone returning. “Let’s go.”

* * *

 

                They walk in silence, Aerith holding on to Sephiroth’s arm for stability. Sephiroth is immensely uncomfortable. He’s torn between putting his arm around her waist and pushing her away. God, he’s just bought himself a whole separate kind of trouble, and maybe he should just return her to Reno, no harm, no foul.

                He’s angry at himself for even entertaining the notion, but the tensing of his arms must serve as some type of signal to Aerith, who gracefully extricates herself. “Thank you, Sephiroth. Thank you for rescuing me.”

                He isn’t sure what he can say that won’t be a lie—no problem? It was my pleasure?—and ends up simply saying, “You’re welcome.”

                Aerith reaches up to her hair and touches what looks like an orb of materia. “I’m glad you’ve been around so much lately. What are you doing in the slums?”

                “Maintenance,” he responds. “The monsters were getting out of hand.”

                She nods slowly. “That makes sense…the slums are a lot cleaner since you’ve been around.” She smiles at him, shaky but whole. “I thought he was really gonna take me this time.”

                There is no need to specify the ‘who’. “I’ve never seen one of them approach you before,” Sephiroth muses as they cross over to Sector 6. “I should have taken one of them aside long before today and addressed the situation.”

                Aerith looks surprised. “Why would you do that for me?”

                Why _would_ he do that?  “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I don’t want them to hurt you. The Turks are ruthless.”

                He should have done it. He’s ashamed that he hadn’t spoken to Tseng, and now this narrow miss—but between searching desperately for any leads on Genesis and Angeal and helping Lazard with the plans in Wutai, he’s been so damned busy…

She ducks her head and smiles, and then she points to the playground—if it can be called that. It was a playground, once, a dirt-cheap, simple playground, but now after years of disrepair and vandalism, it’s barely anything at all.

                She climbs on the top of one of the slides, and says, “Come on, Sephiroth!”

                Part of him groans but none of him hesitates to follow her up, and he arranges his long limbs self-consciously on the top of the children’s slide. Oh, what the Professor would say to see him now…

                “I’ve never been to a playground,” he says absently, looking at all of the broken-down toys.

                She looks at him curiously. “Never?”

                “Well, I have done monster maintenance in the playgrounds, and I’ve done patrols, but I have never played on a playground,” he qualifies.

                “Until now,” she reminds him.

                “Are we playing, now?” he asks, skeptical.

                Aerith can’t help herself, the setup is too perfect. She winks. “Are we?”

                Sephiroth has no idea what she’s talking about.  “Ah, no. We’re just sitting. Both of us are much too old to play.”

                Her face is serious again, her expression mildly concerned. “How come you never went to playgrounds when you were little? Aren’t you from Upper Midgar?”

                Up until that moment, Sephiroth had forgotten about the fake backstory ShinRa had constructed for him. Nice, Upper Midgar parents, close personal friends with the President, dead in a tragic accident, and after their death all of ShinRa decided to raise their orphaned son. He’s rarely if ever required to do anything to bolster his story, and most people would sooner die than question the Silver General.

                He laughs, which he doesn’t normally do. The sound is hollow, like nothing is really funny. “No. I’m not from Upper Midgar. I was raised by a man named Hojo.”

                Aerith blinks in surprise.

                “And my mother’s name was Jenova—”

                She gasps audibly and touches her head. Her eyes are wide and fearful, and suddenly Sephiroth wonders if Aerith hasn’t been a guest of Professor Hojo, as well.

                “What?” he asks.

                “Nothing—that name! I thought I’d—heard it before. I thought I recognized it.” She colors and looks away.

                Sephiroth is no expert on human behavior—far from it—but he can recognize someone who is hiding something. He hears the Turk’s voice echo in his head _this little girl is property of ShinRa, Inc.,_ and he presses on. “I was raised in ShinRa,” he says. “It’s a fake background, that Upper Midgar story. I grew up in labs.”

                He pauses a moment. “I’m an experiment. He experimented on me as a child.”

                Aerith sees the expression of pain flash over his face before it’s replaced with the usual impassive mask. She knew he was in SOLDIER, of course, and she’s seen his strength for herself. But as a _child_? How could they?

                And she remembers the years of sadism she had endured, too, at the hands of Professor Hojo, and she knows exactly how they could. It’s so painful, and Sephiroth is such a _proud_ man, his posture straight, his features imperial—but Hojo wasn’t the name that set her head on fire, Hojo wasn’t the name that Gaia rebelled at, _screamed_ at her to flee from…

                _Jenova—calamity—run_

Aerith has no idea who Jenova is, but she’s always felt a hint of unease underneath the surface of her interactions with Sephiroth, and it’s nice to finally know why. At least now she knows that it isn’t _Sephiroth_ Gaia objects too so strongly, it’s his mother, his dead ancestor, and Aerith, for one, does not believe in the sins of the fathers— _or_ the mothers—being put upon their sons.

                He’s looking at her cautiously, and Aerith rests her head against him. His warmth always surprises her, and seeing him interact with Reno had reminded her of exactly why he always seemed so cold.

                “Do you know Hojo?” Sephiroth nudges her gently. “Is that why the Turks are here?”

                Aerith sighs. Here is the moment, the moment when she will lose their appealing friendship. “I escaped from ShinRa’s labs as a child. I’m the last remaining Cetra.”

                Sephiroth’s eyebrows fly. “An Ancient. Reno wasn’t lying.”

                Aerith knows she shouldn’t tell him this, shouldn’t be talking to someone so highly ranked in ShinRa at all, but she simply can’t help it. She’s been alone for so long, and so she nestles herself against Sephiroth’s lean form and begins to weave him a story, of her mother Ifalna, and Professor Gast, and their attempt to escape ShinRa together.

                “I was a baby when ShinRa found us. We were in Icicle Inn, the Northern Continent,” she tells him. “After that…we were in the labs. My mother and I. We escaped, but she died…”

                Sephiroth puts one arm around Aerith, feeling foolish but wanting to attempt to give comfort. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

                “When did you escape?” she asks.

                He looks at her curiously. “Escape where?”

                “Escape the labs. Hojo. When did you get away?”

                “Oh, I’m—I wasn’t a prisoner,” Sephiroth explains, but the excuse tastes sour against his tongue. “He, ah, he was my father.”

                Aerith recoils. “No!” Oh, God, no, don’t let him take her back…

                Sephiroth senses her fear, and he casts desperately for something to say to show her that he is not with Professor Hojo, something to let her know that he hates Hojo just as deeply as she does…

                “He’s sick. He’s a scientist, but he will never be on the level of Professor Gast. I’ve read much of Gast Faremis’s work.”

                Aerith still looks uncertain. “So—Hojo didn’t—mistreat you?”

                Sephiroth snorts. “I never said that.” His defenses are down; that’s the only reason he can think of as to why he would be telling Aerith all this. He’s thinking about Aerith asking him ‘when did you escape?’ He’s thinking about 2 a.m. phone calls and summons to the lab and threats of Mako showers. He’s thinking of chains, the choke chain ShinRa and Hojo take turns pulling, and throughout all these memories is one of him as a child, of Hojo telling him _you’re not a person, boy, you’re a weapon, and you’ll be the greatest weapon to ever live…_

                He’s thinking about his sword, Masamune, which is a beautiful weapon, finely crafted and the best of the best, but still good for only one thing – killing.

                “I never escaped,” he says softly to Aerith. “I’m still living it, I think.”

                “Sephiroth,” she murmurs. Her soft hand reaches up and strokes the side of his face. He tenses, and it takes all of his considerable willpower to be still under her cool, gentle touch. “I understand.”

                She twists away from him, so she can look into those glowing green eyes. The green eyes meet, and an unfamiliar aching sensation blooms in Sephiroth’s chest. “We understand each other,” she whispers.

                He is perfectly still.

Aerith leans in, and she’s so close that Sephiroth can smell her, flowers and vanilla and an unfamiliar scent that he associates with the blue of her eyes. As her soft lips touch his, he jerks back reflexively, barely stopping himself from shoving her away.

                She looks surprised, and Sephiroth immediately struggles to hide his horror. “I’m sorry,” he exclaims quickly, and he feels so awkward that he’s _angry_ at himself. He forces a smile, but it feels even worse, so instead he composes his face into its usual unreadable expression.

                Aerith only smiles, laughing in that good-natured, warm way. “Don’t worry so much, Seph.”

                _Seph._ Has anyone ever called him Seph, in his life? As close as he had felt with Angeal and Genesis, none of them were much for nicknames, and if someone of a lower class than him had taken such liberties, he would have been tempted to pull out Masamune.

                But oh, Aerith – he’s never met anyone like her. Her laugh is clear as a bell, and as she touches his arm he forces himself to lean in again and press his lips against hers. The second their lips touch, the awkwardness fades away, and it is replaced by a thrill of emotion that he can’t quite name. His mind is racing, but he tries to quiet it and instead focus on the softness of her skin, the silk of her brown hair, how he can feel the warmth of her body underneath her dress where his hand touches her waist…

                “Aerith,” he whispers into her mouth. It should be unpleasant. He should be recoiling from all this contact, should be repelled. But somehow, it’s the most beautiful moment.

                When they break apart, he is smiling. It’s a real smile, genuine, and Aerith is not surprised at all to find she loves the way it transforms his austere, forbidding face. When she sees that smile, Aerith knows she is safe. Whoever this man is, whatever he comes from, she trusts him completely. She has never seen Sephiroth smile like this before, and Gaia, it’s perfect.

                Sephiroth leans back in of his own volition, this time, and trails his long fingers down her spine instinctively. Aerith shudders at the sensation, and he can feel her smiling through their kiss. This one is longer, hungrier, and Sephiroth is utterly surprised to find himself getting lost in it. For once, his mind clears, and is quiet, and all that is there is Aerith. He wants to drink her in, wants to surround himself in warm skin and soft hair.

                Faintly, he hears a buzzing, and he realizes that his PHS is demanding his attention. He is seconds away from just breaking the damn thing, but instead he breaks off their embrace and looks at the screen. It’s a text message from Lazard, demanding his immediate presence back at HQ. If it’s about Wutai, he’ll decapitate the President and come back out, he decides, half serious. If it’s about Angeal and Genesis—well, that’s another story.

                “I have to leave,” he tells her, and he jumps gracefully from the top of the slide.

                “Show-off,” she grumbles, carefully climbing down. She smiles at him, and then the expression fades. “Is everything okay?”

                Somehow he finds that he cannot lie to Aerith anymore.  “I’m not sure,” he says. “It’s the Director of SOLDIER.”

                “Will you be back?” she asks.

                Here, he hesitates. Of course he’ll be back, but when? What’s to stop Reno from waiting at the church and then trying to take her again? The power of Sephiroth’s presence stopped him from taking her, but he is under no impression that Reno has learned his lesson. Of course, Sephiroth’s death threats may have taken root—Reno does not strike Sephiroth as someone who would die for his job, not by a long shot—but there’s always a chance.

                Sephiroth is excellent at calculating odds, but he already knows that whatever odds they come up with would be unacceptable. Any risk to Aerith is a risk not worth taking, and he thinks for a moment.

                “Aerith, give me one moment, please.” He dials a number on his PHS. “Fair? It’s Sephiroth. I need you meet me at the Sector 6 playground—yes, the wreckage. Get here immediately, as fast as you possibly can. I don’t care how you get here or what you have to do.”

                A pause. “I’ll make any excuses that need made for you. Consider it carte blanche.”

                He immediately regrets the last sentence, but he closes the phone anyway and turns to Aerith, who looks strangely unhappy. “Zack Fair is coming. He will keep you safe while I’m occupied—he just got promoted to First Class and he is very loyal.”

                “The one who fell through the roof?” Aerith asks suspiciously.

                “Yes. He’s—” Sephiroth pauses. “He’s very well-meaning. He’s a solid fighter. He’ll keep you safe until I can speak with the leader of the Turks and have them halt this ridiculous investigation. You do not belong to anyone, least of all the Professor.”

                “I wasn’t asking because I was worried about the Turks coming back,” Aerith says softly. “I—I want to see you again, Sephiroth.”

                He stares at her openly. He thinks it’s painfully obvious how much _he_ wants to see her again, how can she not tell? “Aerith...of course I’ll be back. I just have to take care of a few things.”

                She smiles, and it’s like watching the dawn break over her beautiful face. He could watch it again and again, and think it’s a marvel of nature every time.

                “Stay with Zack. He will keep you safe,” Sephiroth presses. “I will be back.”

                Aerith nods, and then tilts her face—not to the side, the way she usually does, but this time she tilts her chin up towards. He has no idea what she’s doing until she purses her lips slightly, and he leans down, feeling rather foolish. Their lips meet, and he gives her another kiss, short but sweet.

                _“Hel_ -lo!”

                “Oh, for the love of—Fair, you have the worst timing, “Sephiroth says severely, to cover his embarrassment.

                He shrugs. “I broke land speed records, but I’m here. What’s up?”

                Sephiroth’s PHS buzzes again – Lazard. _Where are you?_ Sephiroth hastily assures him he is on the way, and then turns his attention to the two. “Fair, you remember Ms. Gainsborough?”

                “Aerith, the flower girl,” Aerith offers. “You fell in through my church roof.”

                “Of course I remember you! What’s up?” he says. He’s so easygoing and open, Sephiroth almost envies him for a moment. Almost.

                “ _Ms. Gainsborough_ is having some trouble with the Turks. There is a misunderstanding. They believe her to be an escaped research specimen,” he tells Zack, whose eyes widen.

                “You?” he asks, looking at her in surprise.

                Aerith shrugs. What can she say?

                “Focus, Fair. It’s a mistake. They are not looking for her. I need to go back to headquarters – you are to guide Ms. Gainsborough to her home, or wherever she wishes to go. Do not allow the Turks, or anyone, to lay a hand on her. Do you understand?” Sephiroth pushes.

                “Yes, sir.”

                “You’re authorized to use whatever force is necessary—but _obviously_ , use only the minimum amount needed.”

                “No killing unless I want to wade through the paperwork. Got it,” Zack agrees easily. Sephiroth can feel his temper rising – does Zack ever take anything seriously?

                He moves closer to Zack. “Fail this, and I’ll bust you all the way out of SOLDIER—no, if you fail this, I’ll have you killed in the streets.”

                Both Zack and Aerith are staring at him now with slightly apprehensive looks on their faces. Sephiroth doesn’t care. If it’s a choice between Aerith dying at the hands of Reno and the Turks or Aerith thinking he’s sadistic, it’s no contest.

                “Take her wherever she wishes to go, Fair. You do not leave until she is safe for the night, by which time I should have handled my situation. Are we clear?”

                “Yes, sir.” Zack nods, smiling encouragingly at Aerith. “She’s beautiful. Good one, Sephiroth.” He pats Sephiroth’s arm and Sephiroth pushes him off roughly, thinking about Angeal calling him a puppy, and how much he really did live up to that nickname.

                “Don’t make me regret this, Zack.”

                _Angeal. Genesis._ With an abbreviated goodbye, Sephiroth takes off, rushing to headquarters at record speed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A pure love unrehearsed  
> I've seen your best and worst  
> And at your worst, you're still the best  
> But at my best, I am the worst  
> It's a curse  
> Your eyes are lined in pain  
> Black tears don't hide in rain"
> 
> \- "Lydia", Highly Suspect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic depiction of sex in this chapter

                Lazard is waiting in Sephiroth’s office when he walks in. Sephiroth takes one look at his face and wishes he could walk back out.

                “Quickly,” Sephiroth says, his voice low. “Say it quickly.”

                The director understands. “Angeal is dead. We found his body.”

                Sephiroth does not speak. He does not move a muscle. The silence stretches, but Sephiroth cannot speak.

                “I wanted you to be the first to know,” Lazard says quietly. “I called you as soon as I found out.”

                Sephiroth still does not say anything, and eventually Lazard walks out. He looks older, more tired and worn these days. Sephiroth watches him go, and then takes a seat at his desk. He pulls out a piece of paper, a letter that Angeal had written when he made First Class. Sephiroth was in Wutai by then, and Angeal enjoyed writing letters to his friends and family.

                _I was so pleased to earn First Class. I think sparring with you has really helped improve my dexterity, and I’ve taken your advice about footing while in a close-quarters fight. Sephiroth, do you ever worry that you’re not going to live up to the honors you’ve been given?_

No, Sephiroth had never worried about that.

                _Do you ever wonder if your dreams are going to be realized? And once your dreams are made a reality, what keeps you going after that? When we reach the top, where do we go? I’m asking because you’re already there._

It’s lonely, Angeal. There’s nowhere to go.

                _I’m going to be joining you in Wutai next month with Genesis. Genesis feels he can bring a lot to the war effort, and I’m glad we’ll all be of comparable skill by the time we arrive. My First Class enhancements are due to take place next week, and I’m sure there will be much to learn. I think I’ve come to realize if you want to be a hero, you have to dreams and honor. Don’t you agree?_

                Oh, Angeal.

                The only thing more painful than the letter was the realization that Sephiroth had never replied to it. He was too busy, and he was going to be seeing Angeal next month anyway, so what was the point?

                Why didn’t he try harder? Why didn’t he _find_ Angeal and Genesis? The degradation had taken them, and he was to blame.

                “My friend,” Sephiroth says, his voice unfamiliar and rough. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

                And he crumples up the paper and throws it away. What’s the point now?

Angeal is gone.

               

* * *

 

                Sephiroth stumbles back through the slums like he’s walking underwater. His limbs feel loose, his stride is ungainly. All he wants is to get away from this.

                It’s black as sin outside when the steeple of the church comes into his view. He pushes through the door, and finds it empty, of course, but he sits on the floor beside the flowers anyway. The quiet, the calm, it’s soothing to him. He didn’t expect Aerith to be here, but he had to get away from ShinRa, just away from it all.

                His PHS buzzes. It’s an unfamiliar number, and he answers it with a snarl. “Sephiroth.”

                “Sephiroth, it’s Zack. Aerith says she needs to see you right away,” comes Zack’s voice, tinny through the speakers. Oh, Gods, Zack doesn’t know. Sephiroth thinks of the reverential look on Zack’s face when he spoke of Angeal, thinks of the patience and affection that Angeal showered on his student, and he can’t bear to think of the outcome.

                “I’m at the church,” he says flatly. He can hear Zack telling Aerith the news, and he hears Aerith’s voice, tight with stress, demanding to be taken there immediately. He listens, expressionless, to a brief squabble during which Zack tries to tell Aerith it’s too dangerous to go in the middle of the night, and Aerith says she’s going one way or another.

                “Aerith says she needs you,” Zack reports. _No_ , he hears Aerith scold Zack. _He needs me, and I’m coming._

                “Fine. Bring her.” He disconnects the call.

* * *

 

                Sephiroth is sitting on the ground, feet planted firmly, knees folded in front of his lean form. He doesn’t move, he can’t move. He is not full of anguish; he is not angry. He feels empty.

                The soft sounds of footsteps approach – he recognizes Aerith’s light ones, quick and quiet, and Zack’s heavier ones, as the weight of his muscular form shifts back and forth.

                Suddenly Aerith’s steps quicken, and she is by Sephiroth’s side, her arms wrapped around him. She presses his form against hers, she tries to will her own strength into his body. She holds him, and Sephiroth wants to enjoy it, but it’s too much, too much.

                “Are you okay?” Zack asks cautiously. “I’m here—what’s going on?”

                At Zack’s voice, something sparks in Sephiroth’s mind. This is _Zack._ He’s SOLDIER, and that means he’s under Sephiroth’s command. And Sephiroth, for all his faults, takes care of his men. How many times has he told someone their friend had died in combat? How many times had he shown up at the homes of widows who didn’t even know they were widows yet? Sephiroth was an army general, and he would do right by his soldiers, until death. He gently disentangles himself from Aerith, who silently sits on the floor, waiting.

                Sephiroth stands up so he’s eye-to-eye with Zack—Zack is shorter than Sephiroth, of course, almost everyone is, but since his First Class enhancements he’s shot up, so the gap is much smaller than it was a few months ago. “Zack,” he says, somewhat surprised to find that his voice is completely calm.

                Zack looks at him apprehensively. “What? What is it?”

                Quickly. Sephiroth takes a breath and blows it out slowly. “Angeal is dead,” he says, trying to keep his tone soft. “They found Angeal’s body. The degradation was too much.”

                In the days, weeks, months to come, Sephiroth would see this moment. He would see the anger and confusion spilling over Zack’s face, would remember the exact moment that Zack truly felt loss. He would always be able to see a shadow come over Zack’s handsome face, a shadow that seemed to never truly fade completely.

                “He was gonna be okay,” Zack protests, running a hand through his dark spikes of hair. “H-He was going to be just fine.”

                Sephiroth shakes his head slowly. “It got worse. Lazard just told me.”

                Zack covers his mouth.

                “I’m sorry, Zack, but it’s true. They’ll want things from us. If there’s anyone you can stay with—anyone outside of SOLDIER—I advise doing it. For a few days,” he says quietly. Sephiroth does not trust ShinRa, and he doesn’t know what will happen now, with Angeal gone and Genesis presumed dead.

                “M-my friend. I got a buddy in the infantry. I can stay with him,” Zack says slowly, not able to focus on the conversation at all. Suddenly, Zack’s knees buckle, and he grabs a nearby support beam to hold himself up. “This can’t be real.”

                “It is real,” Sephiroth promises. “I understand. But it is real. There is nothing we can do for Angeal now.”

                Zack looks so tortured, Sephiroth feels a pang of affection towards the younger man. He remembers Zack and Angeal’s relationship, he remembers how much joy Angeal got out of mentoring him. “Go to your friend,” Sephiroth suggests. “The infantryman. Don’t answer any calls or pages from ShinRa. If questioned, use my authority.”

                How much longer that authority would be good for is anyone’s guess. Sephiroth can feel things coming to a head, can feel them all speeding towards some type of confrontation, some type of resolution. It isn’t good. Oh, Gods, this feeling is not good.

                Zack looks shell-shocked, but he stumbles out of the church in search of comfort.

                Aerith is against him in a flash, tugging him back down to the floor, so she can wrap him in her warm embrace. “I’m sorry, Sephiroth. I’m so sorry.”

                He shakes his head. “How did you know?”

                Aerith feels helpless. How can she tell him? How could she ever explain so that he could understand? How would she ever be able to describe how the whispers started up, how she _felt_ the pain of a good soul entering the Lifestream, how Gaia told her to go to the Son of the Calamity? _Be his strength_ , the whispers instructed her. _Be his rock_. And she is willing, desperate, for Sephiroth to lean on her, for if such a powerful man breaks, she knows that the collateral damage will reverberate through the entire planet.

                “I just knew,” she tells him, not an answer at all. “I just knew you needed me.”

                They sit in silence for a moment, comforting silence. Aerith is running her fingers through his long silver hair, twisting the silky strands around her delicate fingers. “Can I braid it?” she asks idly.

                A smile ghosts over Sephiroth’s face. “You may. I braid it myself, before I go to sleep.”

                Aerith laughs, and then covers her mouth. Should she be laughing, when Sephiroth is mourning his friend? But he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s just funny, thinking about your hair being braided,” she explains. “You seem so…dignified.”

                “I am dignified,” Sephiroth remarks. “I can be dignified with my hair in a braid.”

                Aerith braids intricately, her hands deftly weaving the long hair together in a complicated knot. “Tell me about your friend,” she says quietly.

                “His name was Angeal. He was patient…so patient. He was Zack’s mentor, and he loved Zack. He was the peacekeeper between Genesis and myself,” Sephiroth says with a sigh. “Genesis is my friend who disappeared. I still haven’t been able to find him.”

                “You will,” she encourages.

                “I’m starting not to think so. He’s been gone for too long. I’m starting to think…that he died as well, but we just haven’t come across his corpse yet.”

                Aerith understands. “You can’t know for sure now.”

                Sephiroth looks to her suddenly, whipping his hair away from her. “You—you knew Angeal had died. Can you…do you know…?”

                But Aerith is shaking her head. She knew this question was coming, she has gotten it since she was a child, any time her Cetra abilities were revealed. People wanted her to play oracle, to play goddess, to know things that no human had the right to know.

                “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I couldn’t know. I get flashes of insight, nothing more. I have no control…I’m an instrument that Gaia uses when She wants to. My mother was a full Cetra though…she might have been able to help you.”

                Aerith looks pained at the idea of not being able to be of use to Sephiroth, and he immediately regrets asking. Aerith is not a soldier, she is not under his command. Her capabilities are entirely her own business, and he doesn’t want to see her as an _asset_. She’s different than that, more precious and more delicate than he possibly deserves.

                “I’m sorry,” Sephiroth says, his voice sincere. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

                “No, I want you to ask,” Aerith says fiercely. “I want to be able to help you. I’m sorry your friend is dead, and if there’s a way I can help, tell me, Seph.”

                He turns towards her and his mouth is against hers in a second, the kiss hard, almost biting. Aerith can feel his frustration, the desperate way he pulls her against him, the way he clings to her like she, and she alone, can save him from drowning.

                Sephiroth is gripping her shoulders so hard Aerith expects she’ll have bruises, but she finds herself responding to the roughness of his touch, craving it, wishing he would dig his fingers deeper into her delicate flesh. Almost as if she’s spoken out loud, his moves his hands lower, so they’re resting against her hips and bottom, and grabs with all his might.

                Aerith can’t help herself; she cries out.

                Sephiroth is away from her in an instant, raising his hands as if to assure her he means no harm. “I’m so sorry. I—I forgot myself.”

                She smiles, that beautiful smile that warms Sephiroth’s heart. “Don’t apologize, Sephiroth, just keep going.”

                “I shouldn’t,” he tells her, although his hands are aching with the absence of her firm body. “I’m very strong, and I could harm you in an instant.”

                “I’m not made of glass, Seph,” she says, and her hands are unbuttoning the front of that pink dress that Sephiroth has come to know so well. The swell of her breasts draws his gaze, and as she exposes her bra, he reaches under it and flicks his thumb over one of her pink nipples, which immediately hardens.

                She gasps, and then it’s all over. He isn’t sure where it comes from, this primal urge, but Sephiroth pushes her gently down onto the floor, finishes unbuttoning the dress and quickly navigates the removal of both it and the wine red jacket. Aerith reaches up and begins trying to unbuckle Sephiroth’s stomach guard and belt, but the intricate buckles are impossible, and Sephiroth smiles and removes it himself.

                Aerith is clad in cotton panties, and Sephiroth in nothing at all. She reaches up and pulls him against her, and at the dizzying feeling of skin against skin, Sephiroth is the one who gasps. He has never felt this much skin in his life, and the sensation is something he can’t quite believe. He can’t quite believe she is _real_ , that there can exist down in the slums a girl with skin this soft and smooth, and that such a girl would be looking up at him, her brown hair spilling over her gently curving body, and saying his name.

                Sephiroth has never done this before, has never tasted and manipulated the curves and planes of a beautiful woman, but may Hades damn him if he lets Aerith know it. Without a word—without hesitation, he pulls off her cotton panties and uses his fingers to rub against her most sensitive place, relying on his heightened senses to tell him when she is enjoying it.

                His enhanced sight notices the flush of red climbing up the expanse of creamy skin, his ears are able to sense the smallest changing in her breathing, the slightest hitch of a moan as his fingers become slick with her desire. He can detect the scent of lust in the air, and his own erection is prominent as he works his long fingers inside Aerith’s perfect body.

                He can’t wait any longer, simply can’t, and he is on top of her body so quickly that it takes Aerith’s breath away. She can feel the hard muscle of his torso, his legs, and this time she is not surprised by his body heat. She pulls him closer, welcoming that warmth, opening her legs so that the hot length of him can push its way into her very center. Oh, Gaia, she is finally filled up. She is finally not alone.

                Their connection is pure heat and fury, and they both move in an instinctive rhythm, ancient and enchanting. She lifts her hips, and he meets her. She brushes her lips against the edge of his collarbone, and he drives deeper into her, fisting his hands through her hair, rough to the point of punishing, and Aerith pushes back.

                Sephiroth’s orgasm crests, and as he thrusts into her, he can hear her thin cry echo through the barren church announcing her own peak as well. They are intertwined, entangled. They are lovers, and this moment is one that can never be taken, neither by ShinRa nor Gaia.

                Aerith holds Sephiroth inside of her one more moment, and then he pulls out and is struck by how much he already feels the absence of her warm body around him. He runs his eyes over her lovely body, and notices red marks, fingerprints, marring her skin.

                “Are you hurt?” he asks, sense rushing back to him. What has he done? He cannot lose Aerith too. He can’t. The thought brings an uncomfortable panic that he had previously only felt from inside a tank as he watched Mako levels rise.

                “Love,” she whispers, “I’m okay. I’m not hurt at all. And I’m not going anywhere.”

                _Love_ , she called him. _Love_.

* * *

 

                They are on that floor for hours afterwards. The conversation flows, so much more freely than with anyone before, for either of them. They talk about Angeal, and Aerith cries. They talk about Hojo. They talk about ShinRa.

                As dawn breaks, they laugh. Their conversation lightens. Aerith doesn’t feel that desolate loneliness; although she is the only Cetra, she is not alone now. She feels safe, protected, cherished, wrapped in Sephiroth’s strong arms, and she burrows herself deeper into his embrace and wishes she could stay there forever. Sephiroth, she knows, is a man of his word, and when he vows that no harm will come to her, Aerith feels most of her fear melt away.

                Their conversation turns towards the Cetra. Sephiroth is fascinated by her heritage, especially when she talks about how the Turks knew about her powers even as a child.

                “What powers?” he asks. “I mean, what can you do?”

                “You’ll think it’s crazy,” she says self-consciously.

               “I know about the Ancients,” he encourages. “I know that they had strange powers. I’m just curious how it manifests for you, specifically.”

               She looks up at the ceiling of the church, which is beautifully repaired now, thanks to Sephiroth’s money. “I can hear the voices—voices of the Cetra, the voice of Gaia. Gaia whispers to me…tells me things She thinks I need to know.”

               Sephiroth is intrigued. “Like what?”

               Aerith pauses. “She tells me when someone special has died, sometimes. She helped Mother and I escape from ShinRa. She warns me, sometimes, about people.”

               “What does Gaia say, about me?” Sephiroth asks her languidly.

               Aerith hesitates, and then she does something that she didn’t think she would be capable of doing. “Gaia says you’re doing the best you can,” she lies.

                Sephiroth smiles. “That’s very generous of her. Tell her I feel the same.”

                “Stop,” she says, laughing. The moment has passed, and Aerith feels relieved that Sephiroth did not notice the lie, but why is she suddenly so guilty? Why does she feel like something impossible almost happened? For a moment she considers telling him the truth, but this is a rare moment with him, and she’s loath to spoil it with foolishness.

                Instead she pulls herself up so she’s straddling his nude form, and he looks at her with interest. He rocks his hips experimentally, and at her flush, he laughs.

                “You laugh so rarely,” Aerith says. “Actually, it’s more like a chuckle, really.”

                “I have no idea what the difference is between a chuckle and a laugh. Or a giggle, for that matter.” He rocks his hips again, a slow rhythm. He knows it’s strange to talk in this situation, but it feels so perfectly natural.

                “I’ve definitely never heard you giggle,” Aerith tells him.

                “And you never will,” he says. “If it doesn’t happen around you, it simply does not happen.”

                Aerith reaches down and intertwines their fingers. “You must not smile very much outside of here. I remember when I met you, I thought you were the most serious man I had ever met. Do you ever smile at work?”

                She’s joking, but Sephiroth answers her. “Not over the same things,” he says, raking his eyes over her naked body straddled over his midsection. He can feel himself hardening again, can feel his erection pressed against the smooth silk of her skin.

                When the second round of lovemaking is finished, Aerith is bathed in a thin sheen of sweat. Sephiroth is immaculate as always, and she scowls at him as she brushes her damp bangs away from her face. “Do you never sweat?”

                “When I’m sufficiently physically exerted,” he answers.

                “Oh! You asshole!”

                He raises his eyebrows. “Behave yourself.”

                At his comment, Aerith dissolves into laughter, and after a moment, he joins in. Sephiroth thinks of Angeal, suddenly; what would Angeal think of him sleeping with a flower girl and laughing like a child right after his death?

                Sephiroth pictures Angeal’s face, calm and kind. He remembers Angeal looking at him with concern, asking Sephiroth when he last took a break, asking if was okay. He remembers the joy on Angeal’s face whenever Sephiroth broke into a rare smile.

                _I think that I’m happy, Angeal. I wish you were here to see it. It takes a long time to realize how miserable you are and even longer to see it doesn’t have to be that way._

Happiness, for General Sephiroth of ShinRa, is an exotic creature, easily broken and difficult to find. It has taken Sephiroth twenty-seven years, but finally he knows that happiness can exist, even for him. It has been dark inside of his mind, full of death and dying and fear, for so many years, and he feels as if a candle has been lit inside of him for the first time.

                As he watches the rays of dawn luminesce over Aerith’s angelic countenance, Sephiroth knows that he will do anything, sacrifice anything, if only to keep that light shining. He will be by her side day by day, he will keep her from harm for the rest of her life.

                He vows many things, basking in the dawn’s light with Aerith, but the truth is that as gifted as both of them are, neither of them can see the darkness that is coming.


	5. Chapter 5

               Aerith is dozing beside him, curled into his body like a shell. Sephiroth has not slept at all; although he requires three hours a night for optimal performance, he can manage days at a time with no sleep at all. These moments with Aerith are worth so much more than sleep, it is almost blasphemy to consider being unconscious when he could be drinking in the sight of Aerith, sleeping peacefully, Aerith, whose lips are bruised with kisses, Aerith, who has somehow brought light into a place that he would never have believed.

                Sephiroth’s PHS buzzes. It’s Director Lazard, again, summoning him back to headquarters. Not again, he thinks, and he’s suddenly filled by the childish urge to delete the message from his device, to pretend he never saw it and it is not beckoning him. But he pictures Genesis – Genesis’ vanity sword that is too brittle to meet Sephiroth’s in sheer strength, but is infused with materia, Genesis’ red coat that he had done after Sephiroth’s black one became iconic. Genesis has always been the frustrating one, the dramatic one, always reciting _Loveless,_ always obsessing over who was the _true_ hero. It drove Sephiroth crazy at times, but Gods, they were friends.

                He was the first to hear of Angeal’s death. He knows that he must bear witness to Genesis’s death, as well, and with that thought weighing on his heart like a stone, he gently wakes Aerith.

                “Mmm?” she groans, stretching her lithe limbs. “Good morning.”

                “I must return to ShinRa,” he responds, hating how cool his voice sounds but not knowing how to infuse warmth in it, to make it calming, appealing, like Aerith’s. He adds hastily, “Good morning, Aerith. You look lovely.”

                “ShinRa?” she asks, sitting up and looking concerned. “Did something happen?”

                Sephiroth shakes his head. “I’m not sure. My director just sent me a message…”

                Aerith’s green eyes meet his, and the sadness in them feels like high level bolt spell. “Is it your friend? Genesis?”

                “I’m not sure,” he repeats.

                “You have to go,” she says softly. “I’ll be okay. I’ll go straight home.”

                Sephiroth is agonized, trying to decide what to do with Aerith while he meets with Lazard. He cannot bear to just leave her unprotected, but he knows that taking her with him would be the worst mistake he’s made yet.

                “I’ll be okay,” she says again. “If anything happens to me, you’ll know where to find me, at least, right?” It’s an attempt at humor, but it falls flat. Hojo might want her alive, but Sephiroth harbors no illusions that the ham-fisted kidnapping methods he’s witnessed so far would not have led to Aerith’s death eventually.

                “If anything happens to you,” Sephiroth says forcefully, “I will never stop searching.”

                And he leaves her, with a kiss and a promise.

* * *

 

                Genesis has not been found; he is still presumed dead. Sephiroth feels a rush of relief, but it’s replaced with dread as he realizes that he has been brought there, once again, to be forced into thrall.

                Their negotiations have never lasted this long, because Sephiroth has never flatly refused a mission and been unable to budge at all. He does not know what this new mission is; he does not care. He is not leaving Midgar. He is not leaving Aerith.

                “I think,” Sephiroth says slowly, tasting the words, savoring their bittersweet taste on his tongue, “I’m done with SOLDIER.”

 “Do this last mission for us,” Lazard begs. “Sephiroth, I know you want out, but this is incredibly important and it has to be someone as highly skilled as you.”

                Sephiroth can say nothing else. “I will not leave. I do not wish to be a part of SOLDIER anymore.”

                Lazard shakes his head again. “Sephiroth, I know. You’ve been doing this for a long time. You’ve been a good soldier. We can talk about your retirement—but this mission is of utmost importance. It’s been brought to the President himself, directly from Professor Hojo, who says your expertise is needed.”

                That’s all Sephiroth needs to bolster his resolve. “I absolutely refuse,” he says. “Lazard, please. Don’t push this. I refuse.”

                Lazard collapses in his highback chair. “Work with me, Sephiroth. You know that I can’t just accept a refusal like that.”

                “I refuse.”

                “Sephiroth, my hands are tied.”

                “I refuse.”

                Sephiroth’s acute hearing picks up on footsteps approaching, and he identifies them immediately, with a panicky feeling in this throat. Oh Gods, the mako. The _chains_.

                “What seems to be the problem here, boy?”

                “Nothing that can’t be resolved,” Lazard says smoothly. He has always known how Sephiroth hates Hojo, and although he can’t allow Sephiroth to just refuse this mission, he doesn’t want to just toss him over to the Professor. “A simple disagreement between colleagues, Professor.”

                “Colleagues? Does Sephiroth _have_ colleagues?” Hojo laughs, his voice grating against Sephiroth’s nerves. “Sephiroth does not have colleagues any more than the Weapons Department’s new AI system has colleagues. You simply _command_ him.”

                “It’s under control,” Lazard insists.

                Sephiroth is silent. He can feel the chains around his neck, wrapping themselves tighter and tighter as Hojo steps closer to him in the room. He could kill him. He could murder Hojo, right here in cold blood, and then turn on Lazard, and then—

                “Sephiroth, you will complete this mission,” Hojo barks. “Go to the reactor. Report back to me.”

                Sephiroth shakes his head, summons up his resolve. “I refuse.”

                “It is _very important, boy_!” It’s always very important. There’s always a very important mission, or a very important test, or a very important war. Sephiroth has heard those words so many times, they have almost lost meaning to him.

                Hojo is right near Sephiroth now, his dull eyes meeting Sephiroth’s glowing green ones. Hojo shows no fear, no hesitation or doubt. He is confident in his domination, and that alone makes Sephiroth itch to draw his sword.

                “You will _go,_ Sephiroth. Or you will be inside Mako for the foreseeable future.”

                “Or I could kill you,” Sephiroth says quietly. Lazard stands up immediately, alarmed. He walks towards the two men, ready to play peacekeeper, but Hojo throws up a hand to command him back.

                Hojo laughs then. “Oh, really? Yes, yes, I suppose you _could_ kill me. I’m an old man. I’ve got no weapons. And what then, Sephiroth?”

                Sephiroth says nothing.

                “What then? Then you kill the Director, is that right? And then you kill the President? What’s next, the Department Heads? Kill everyone?”

                Sephiroth is certainly capable of that. All of them trust him, all of them know he can beat them on his worst day.

                “You can kill me, boy. You can probably kill the Director. But can you kill the entire ShinRa army? Can you battle against every other SOLDIER, every infantryman, every robot?” Hojo laughs again. “You’ve got a knack for killing, I agree. But if you kill me, you’ll never have another moment of peace. You’ll be hunted, and anyone with you will be marked, forever.”

                Aerith. Could he know? No. No, it’s impossible.

                “And sure, you can kill anyone who comes after you—but can you take on the whole army at once? Because we will rain down upon you, Sephiroth. We will rain hell down upon your existence.”

                “Hell doesn’t scare me,” Sephiroth hisses, clenching his fists. He doesn’t trust himself to move, because in this moment, he sees Hojo in himself. His logic is impeccable; it’s exactly how he would have responded to the situation. Hojo is right, and the thought burns in him like the flames he fantasizes about engulfing the older man in. Sephiroth feels disgusted, _dirty_ , knowing that Hojo, who tortured him as a child, Hojo, who tortured _Aerith_ , is inside him – knows him – is a part of him.

                Lazard steps in again. His face looks pained, his hands are open. “Sephiroth, if you do this one final mission, I’m sure I can negotiate your…retirement. Something quiet, something safe. If you leave the Company on good terms, there’s no reason you can’t enjoy your peace and quiet wherever you please.”

                Hojo glares at Lazard. “Of course we can’t have that. The boy is a scientific marvel, it would be a blight against science itself not to continue to study him—”

                “This final mission,” Sephiroth says, forcing the words out. “I’ll do this final mission, and then I can leave? With no…issues?” He’s skeptical—does anyone ever go against Hojo and win? He has bowed to this man since his birth—can Lazard really promise him something Hojo will not allow?

                But Lazard agrees eagerly. Sephiroth can detect lies; Lazard’s earnest face tells him that he will make this happen. “Yes. You’ve been doing this for a while, I understand. People get burnt out of the army, and you’ve been here longer than anyone. Perhaps you’ll come back someday, but I’m sure I can get the President to understand, so long as you leave here on good terms.”

                And Sephiroth knows. The price of his freedom will be blood. Whose blood, and where, and why, he has no idea, but he knows now that the price to pay will be death. And he will pay. Oh, he will pay anything, just to take Aerith away from this. SOLDIER is a den of monsters, he think, and I am the one in charge.

                Sephiroth agrees to the mission, and Hojo storms out. Sephiroth’s unease deepens—he needs to know what is coming, what it is that fills him with dread and visions of death, he just wishes he knew what to prepare for. Lazard looks worn, pale—he doesn’t look like a man who has the situation at hand. Sephiroth almost wishes he could back him up, help Lazard the way Lazard is trying to help him, but he has on one thing in mind.

                “I have a stipulation,” Sephiroth says firmly. It’s not a request.

                “Yes?”

                “There is a flower girl in the slums. Her name is Aerith Gainsborough. The Turks have been trying to bring her in. I need you to halt that investigation.” His voice is flat. He does not beg.

                “SOLDIER does not have authority over Turks,” Lazard begins.

                “I understand how the power structure of ShinRa works,” Sephiroth snaps. “I know you have no authority. I’m asking you to do it, anyway.”

                Lazard begins to say that he can’t, but he meets Sephiroth’s eyes, and he sees something that wasn’t there before. He sees passion, tenderness. He sees Sephiroth asking him a favor, not as a master tactician, not as a general, but as a man.

                Lazard nods his head, not breaking eye contact. “Consider it done.”

                Sephiroth rubs his hand against his face. “This mission. Where am I going?”

                Lazard pulls out a file and hands it to Sephiroth. It is marked CONFIDENTIAL and PROPRIETARY, the way most things Sephiroth reads are. “Nibelheim,” Lazard tells him, “You’re going to Nibelheim, with First Class Zack Fair. You leave in two hours.”

* * *

 

                As Sephiroth rushes through the slums, desperate to see Aerith, Lazard requests a meeting with the President, regarding an urgent matter.

                “Sephiroth has requested to be retired after this last mission,” Lazard begins. “I know that we don’t have much a retirement program in place for SOLDIER, but I wanted to begin the arrangements while he’s gone.”

                The President snorts. “Sephiroth? Retire? Absolutely not.”

                Lazard is surprised. “He’s been in SOLDIER longer than anyone else. He’s been here longer than me – he’s done a lot of work for the company.”

                “He certainly has. And he’ll do much more in the future.” President ShinRa is shuffling papers, barely even listening to Lazard. “He wants to _retire_?”

                “Yes, sir. He’s finished with SOLDIER, he says. I was thinking perhaps we could do a stipend, a percentage of his pay—”

                ShinRa actually laughs now, and Lazard feels himself flush with anger and embarrassment. “Sephiroth is ShinRa’s property, Director. He can work for the company or die for the company, I don’t care, but he’s not leaving. He’s singlehandedly driven up our ratings more than any of our campaigns. You’re out of your mind if you think he’s going anywhere.”

                Lazard is silent now. He knew there was no retirement fund for SOLDIERs, but it was such a dangerous job that the mortality tends to be high. He can’t quite believe that the company would flat out _refuse_ to let him go, though. How can he keep Sephiroth against his will? How can anyone?

                President ShinRa glances up at Lazard. “If he continues to make noise about leaving, let me know immediately. If we need to have him taken out in the field to ensure his legacy remains intact, so be it.”

                Lazard’s mind is racing. Does Sephiroth know this? Does Hojo?

                “Is that clear, Director?” President ShinRa pushes.

                “Yes, sir,” Lazard says quietly, and he exits the room. How can he tell Sephiroth this? How can he look the man in the eye and tell him he is a prisoner?

                He’ll wait, he decides. He will wait until Sephiroth returns from Nibelheim, and they’ll discuss it. He’s certain they will be able to come to some sort of agreement.

                Lazard returns to his office, but he can’t focus on his work.

* * *

 

                As Sephiroth rushes through the slums, desperate to see Aerith, Hojo is snarling at his lab technicians to finish up the day’s experiments, because he has more important things to focus on right now.

                Hojo is furious that Sephiroth thinks he’s going to walk out of ShinRa, and he’s angry at Lazard for indulging in that foolishness.

                He knows Sephiroth from the inside out. He has experimented on him since before he was born; his very conception was the product of Hojo’s genius. Sephiroth’s entire existence has been to satisfy Hojo’s curiosity, his drive for scientific discovery, and that dynamic is not about to change, whatever the boy may think.

                He’s irritated that he had to push this hard in order to get Sephiroth to Nibelheim in the first place. Years ago, the chain of command was simple: Hojo ordered, Sephiroth obeyed. This nonsense about negotiations and refusal is pure drivel, and he refuses to entertain it, not when there is science to be done.

                Sephiroth’s genetic mother, Jenova, is housed in Nibelheim. With the mystical powers of the Ancients not yet fully understood, it is imperative that Sephiroth come face-to-face with Jenova and learn the truth of his existence. Hojo has been working on a theory about the extent of the Ancients’ powers, particularly a hypothesis that the presence of other Ancients would increase their powers.

                Sephiroth has both Jenova’s cells and Mako swimming through his veins – how will he react in the presence of a full-blooded Ancient? Hojo needs to test his powers, needs to see if anything new manifests.

                There is science to be done; work to be done. Sephiroth is a subject, nothing more, nothing less, and Hojo will never allow the subject of an experiment to dictate how it progresses.

                He decides he will go to Nibelheim as well. Yes, that will work, give the transport vehicle a day or so head start and then cross over himself.

                There is science to be done. Hojo can hardly wait.

* * *

 

                As Sephiroth rushes through the slums, desperate to see Aerith, he is already picturing her warm, sweet embrace. He has to be back at headquarters in an hour to prepare, he has so little time to see her.

                She is tending to the flowers when he arrives at the church. They’ve been flattened by their passionate encounter the night before, but her ministrations seem to revitalize the flowers, and they reach their delicate blooms towards the light. Her face lights up when she sees him. “Sephiroth!”

                “I assured you I would be back,” he tells her. “However—I need to get back up to headquarters immediately. I have another mission I must complete for ShinRa.”

                Her face falls, there’s no other way to describe it. “We can’t trust ShinRa,” she says quietly, so quietly it doesn’t seem real.

                “I know,” Sephiroth says. “I have no intention of trusting them. But my director has promised to allow me to retire from the military if I do this final mission.”

                Aerith is loath to question Sephiroth’s judgment – when it comes down to who has more experience with ShinRa, with the army, it’s no contest – but a sickly feeling begins to prickle in her belly. “Seph…where are you going?”

                “Nibelheim. For a few days, to clean up some monsters, just like I do around the slums. It’ll be simple,” he says, trying to force himself to believe what he’s saying, because he can’t lie to Aerith. “All I have to do is investigate a reactor malfunction and kill some monsters. I will be cautious.”

                Aerith is shaking her head. “Please don’t go, Sephiroth.”

                He looks down at her in surprise. “Aerith, you know I have to. They refuse to let me retire peacefully otherwise, and although I will always protect you, what kind of life would it be to always be dodging ShinRa’s military?”

                She is adamant though. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care where we go or what we do, but please don’t go to Nibelheim.” Gaia is screaming in her head, and she can barely hear Sephiroth over the voices pleading with her.

                “This isn’t like you,” he says slowly. “Is everything okay?”

                “Please don’t go,” she begs again.

                Sephiroth can’t bring himself to deny her, but he also can’t allow her to be in danger because he doesn’t follow up on his agreement with Lazard. He’s had plenty of experience pushing unwilling soldiers into seeing reason, surely he can do that with her.

                “Aerith, stop this at once,” he says, his voice calm. “I must go to Nibelheim and finish my duties, and then I will return to you and take you wherever you want to go. We can leave Midgar forever. But you must calm down and listen to me.”

                She steps back at the sudden force in his voice, and Sephiroth instantly regrets the approach. A shadow falls over her face, a moment of betrayal. “What?” she asks.

                “Do you trust me?”

                There can be no other answer. “Yes. Yes, of course I do.” She means it. She has never been able to open up to someone, to trust someone in the way that she can trust Sephiroth.

                “Then listen to me now. I am going to Nibelheim. It’s not negotiable. But, Aerith—I will be back, and after this, things will be taken care of. We will be free of ShinRa.” Sephiroth’s voice is always calm, his face perfectly impassive. But there’s a sliver of hope running through his words, and at that hint of emotion, Aerith feels something inside herself disintegrate.

                “Of course,” she forces herself to say. “If you have to, I guess you have to go.” But the edges of her words curl up, as if she’s asking for time that is not Sephiroth’s to give. Aerith hisses in frustration as Gaia screams again inside her mind, and Sephiroth’s hands are on hers immediately.

                “What is it?”

                “A headache,” she lies, and then she follows it up with the truth. “I’ll miss you, Sephiroth.”

                “I will be back before you know it,” he promises. “And I still have almost an hour before I have to return to headquarters.”

                Aerith likes to think she’s better at removing the complicated buckles of Sephiroth’s stomach guard, this time, but it still takes her twice the time it takes him to remove it, and she’s never seen her dress unbuttoned quite so quickly.

                The flowers are flattened again by the time he leaves her, and Aerith thinks that if they’re truly leaving Midgar for good, they should definitely get a bed.


	6. Chapter 6

               Sephiroth is sitting in silence in that bumpy transport on the way to Nibelheim. Zack is there, doing squats in spare moments. Although Zack’s face still harbors the shadow of grief from losing Angeal, he is not the type of person who can be kept down for long. Zack fully embraced Angeal’s wishes to follow his dreams and protect his honor, and he sees this mission as a chance to do both.

                They have several young infantryman with them as well, one of them, a slender blond, has not looked well since the moment he arrived this morning, and now he’s pale and sweaty, in the throes of motion sickness. Zack tries to talk to him, but the infantryman waves him off somewhat impatiently.

                “I gotta say, Spikey, I think it’s all in your head,” Zack tells him, sitting right next to the smaller man.

                All the blonde does is shake his head again and mumble a few curses.

                Zack pulls his helmet off without asking, telling the trooper in no uncertain terms that he needs to get fresh air. Sephiroth is again surprised by the unruliness of the young man’s hair, certainly, it was worse than Zack’s. And his eyes were bright, too, almost like Mako eyes, but not quite.

                “I’ve never gotten motion sick,” Zack says, a tinge of pride in his voice.

                “Congratulations,” Sephiroth says acerbically. “Can you please sit down and stop acting like a child?”

                The infantryman coughs to suppress a laugh, and Zack squeezes in next to him. “I don’t think you’ve ever met Sephiroth in person before, have you, Cloud?”

                The trooper shakes his head, looking miserable.

                “Sephiroth, this is Cloud Strife. He’s infantry now, but he’s gonna be taking the SOLDIER exam next year,” Zack says cheerfully. “And Cloud, you know who Sephiroth is.”

                Cloud nods, and offers a smile in Sephiroth’s direction. “It’s an honor to work with you, General.”

                Sephiroth waves it off, not sure how he wants to respond. Cloud’s open admiration feels like a splinter in his chest. All Sephiroth wants to do is to go this tiny little town, kill some monsters, and get back home to Aerith’s warm vanilla embrace.

                As his thoughts drift back to silken skin and soft hair, Sephiroth notices that Zack’s hand has drifted down to rest on the trooper’s thigh. His thumb is tracing small circles against the heavy fabric of the infantry uniform.

                “Knock it off. You better be able to keep your mind on the mission, Fair,” Sephiroth says disapprovingly.

                “I am! You know, Cloud is _from_ Nibelheim, Sephiroth.”

                “How wonderful for him. He can accompany us to the reactor. ShinRa has arranged for a local guide to take us up there. It’ll be good to have someone else who knows the area. I have never been to Nibelheim.”

                “Me neither,” Zack interjects. “It’s bound to be cold, though—no Gongaga.”

                “I don’t want to hear about how perfect Gongaga is,” Cloud mutters. “And I definitely don’t want to hear any more of your fairy tales about frogs that turn you into frogs.”

                “It’s true! Sephiroth, tell him it’s true!”

                “It’s true,” Sephiroth repeats dutifully, monotone, and he curses his luck to be stuck in this tiny space with two young men who clearly have the combined intelligence of a brain-damaged Zemzlett. And their tiny mannerisms, the casual touches, nothing inappropriate but so _familiar_ , so clearly spell out their affection.

                If Sephiroth had ever considered Zack’s romantic life, which he definitely had not, would he have been surprised at this turn of events? Probably not, he decides. Zack’s exuberance, his boundless affection is legendary, and Sephiroth can see how it would be appealing, to someone else. Sephiroth, however, is immensely annoyed and about to kick one or both of them out of the moving van.

               Unbidden, Aerith’s voice plays in the back of his mind. Gods, he misses her. And yet, he can’t help the horrible feeling of dread that has settled like a stone in his stomach. What’s wrong with him? He’s had much more dangerous missions than this, and he never felt this sense of impending doom.

             What is it about Nibelheim? Why does he feel like the end of everything is in sight?

             “Are you okay?” Zack asks, cocking his head the way Aerith does.

            “It’s so cruel to let people love you,” Sephiroth says quietly. “Everything ends in blood.”

             Zack and Cloud exchange glances just as the truck jolts, and a scream is heard from outside, high, fearful. Sephiroth stands up calmly.

            “The fuck was that?” Zack asks, touching the Buster Sword that was now his possession.

           “That,” Sephiroth says without a moment of hesitation, “is our monster.”

           One of them.

* * *

 

                Nibelheim fills Sephiroth with an odd sense of suspicion. As they enter the town, dragon slain, he is struck by the almost preternatural quiet.

                “How does it feel to be home?” Sephiroth asks offhandedly to the slight blond. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t have a hometown…”

                Cloud looks at him curiously, almost bashful. “Umm…how ‘bout your parents?”

                “My mother was Jenova. My father…” Sephiroth pictures Hojo’s bespectacled face, twisted with anger. He remembers the patent dread that shook his young body whenever a technician would come in and say it was time for another endurance test. Sephiroth is so full of rage his throat feels swollen, and he’s shocked to hear himself laughing.

                “Why am I talking about this?” he asks. “Let’s go.”

                As they walk through the silent town to get to the inn, Sephiroth tells Cloud that he may visit his family and friends. Let one of them get something good out of this visit, he thinks as he climbs the stairs to their rooms. He stares outside the window, and the scene looks so familiar.

                Sephiroth has been many places on ShinRa’s behalf, all over all three main continents. He’s been to Rocket Town, but never Nibelheim. He’s certain of that; Sephiroth keeps track of the places he goes and the people he speaks too. He isn’t careless like Zack, who one time mixed up Mideel and Modeoheim, much to Angeal’s chagrin.

                Angeal’s name is a prick to Sephiroth’s chest, and he thinks that Aerith would think that story was funny. Aerith likes Zack, finds him silly but well-meaning. As soon as he sees her, he decides, he’ll tell her about how Zack almost ruined an entire mission by messing up the location like that. Sephiroth had been furious, of course, but he knows Aerith would find the story funny.

                 He wonders what Aerith would think of this horrible sense of déjà vu he has, staring at this tiny little nothing town. As he considers her gentle response, he senses someone whispering.

                _come to me_

                _come – Sephiroth – come_

_come to me_

Sephiroth can hear someone. Saying his name? Calling him? But who could it be – who the _fuck ­_ – he’s alone in the hotel room, he checked the room thoroughly, as he does every room he intends to be in longer than a few moments.

                _come, Sephiroth_

He is rigid, poised to move immediately. His fingers itch to draw Masamune, and he holds absolutely still while he tries to track the voice. It’s not coming from behind him, not in front of him—it almost sounds like it’s coming from behind his eyes, like his own thoughts, made audible—but that’s insane.

                _come to Mount Nibel, Sephiroth_

_not like them_

_you’re not like them_

“What?” he says aloud, trying to modulate his tone.

                Immediately, the manager in the inn begins walking up the stairs. “Yes, General Sephiroth? Can I do something for you?”

                “Do you hear anything?” Sephiroth demands, and the men stand in silence for a moment.

                _come_

“No, sir,” the manager shakes his head. “Was there a disturbance? The entire inn has been cleared out for your convenience, sir, but if you need silence I can ask all the villagers to stay inside, so as not to disturb you. Sir.”

                “Fine,” Sephiroth waves him off, and the man is gone. He can hear his heavy footsteps as he rushes downstairs and harshly commands everyone that the mighty General needs _absolute silence_ and that if he hears _a single sound_ there will be penalties…

                Sephiroth almost feels guilt, but he is too preoccupied for that. What could that voice be? Telling him to go to Mount Nibel, for Gaia’s sake, where they were already headed? How could it possibly know?

                He hears Zack and Cloud begin to come up the steps. “Are you ready for bed? We’ve got quite an early start tomorrow,” he says, and he’s relieved that his voice is normal, doesn’t show any of his internal struggle.

                “It’s still early,” Zack protests, and Cloud bobs his head in agreement.

                “I won’t wake you up,” Sephiroth warns. As if _he_ would stand there, urging them out of bed.

                _worthless children_

_come, Sephiroth_

Sephiroth has never thought of Zack as worthless before, but he finds himself tending to agree with whatever voice that is. They _are_ children, and they certainly don’t hold the value on this mission that he does…

                He resolves to listen to this voice carefully and cautiously, but tell no one. He, and he alone, can figure this out, surely.

                “Go to bed,” he tells Zack quietly, and Zack obeys.

* * *

 

                Aerith is trying to focus on selling flowers. She’s picked out the most beautiful blooms, arranged them just so, even found some extra ribbon to create bouquets with. But as she walks through the slums, offering flowers for a gil, her mind keeps shifting to Sephiroth’s silver hair and glowing eyes.

                Gaia, she misses him. She misses him in a visceral way, like she can feel his absence in her stomach. It’s so much harder knowing how far away he is now—at least before, she knew he was Midgar. She always knew, before, that if she called him, he would come.

                Gaia has not been quiet since Sephiroth left. Sometimes it’s just whispers, sometimes Gaia actually pushes images into her head, and they’re horrible images of fire and death. She whispers about the Calamity, the Abomination.

                Aerith has gotten pretty good about ignoring Gaia though. All of Her warnings about Seph had turned out to be meaningless, anyway. He was a _good_ man, and knowing what she knew about Hojo, Aerith could imagine what Sephiroth had had to endure in his life to get to this point. No, Aerith is certain Gaia is wrong—no Calamity would be able to hold her so tenderly, to kiss her so sweetly, to protect her so fiercely. The Abomination would not be capable of love, and although neither of them are able to say it, Aerith can see in Sephiroth’s radiant eyes how much he loves her.  

                “I won’t let you make me doubt him,” she murmurs under her breath, and she’s rewarded with an image of a tiny little town on fire.

                Aerith pictures a field of grass and yellow flowers, and imagines laying there curled in Sephiroth’s arms. Every time Gaia interrupts, Aerith ignores Her, and walks to the next sector to sell some flowers.

* * *

 

                Sephiroth and the rest of the party have started the long trek up Mount Nibel. Along with Zack and his trooper boy, Cloud Strife, there’s the other infantryman, a quiet youth named Andrews, and the guide, Tifa Lockhart. As soon as Tifa came rushing out of her home—the biggest one in Nibelheim—Strife put his helmet on and refused to remove it.

                Sephiroth has absolutely no time for drama, and before they leave, he directs Zack to handle the situation. “I don’t care what kind of interpersonal nonsense is going on between anybody,” he commands. “It does not get in the way of the mission, are we clear?”

                “Yeah, of course!”

                “That goes for your nonsense, too, Fair,” Sephiroth reminds him.

                Zack shrugs and smiles, but they’ve made it all the way to the bridge with no incident. The battles are dangerous, Nibel Dragons being notably fierce, but even the strongest of them are no match for Sephiroth.              

                Cloud looks at him worshipfully, and Sephiroth just feels tired.

                _worthless, annoying_

_you’re not like them_

The voice seems to get stronger as they continue their trek, urging him onwards. It whispers ugly things about the other members of the party, how _weak_ they are, how they’re just slowing him down, how he’s much better than them…

                It’s true, though. Isn’t it?

                When the rope bridge breaks, and Andrews falls, Zack suggests going back for him, and Cloud seems inclined to agree. Sephiroth knows if they halt the mission now, go back for him, he can probably be saved. Sephiroth’s materia is all mastered-level, and he knows that no one has higher Magic ability, except maybe Genesis, in his prime—but yet, that would slow them down so much—

                _leave him – foolish boy_

_come to me…_

“We have to leave him,” Sephiroth decides. “I know it sounds cold, but we have to keep going if we’re to make it to the reactor.”

                They don’t like it, but they follow him. What other choice do they have? What choice, indeed, other than to die here in the mountains without his power, his protection?

                That curious voice in his head seems to laugh at that thought, and they press on.  The reactor is old, rusted in places, and Sephiroth feels a familiar wave of disgust. It takes a moment, and then he places it – this is how he used to feel before walking through the slums. They were filthy, and the people in there were so worthless. Why haven’t the people in the village kept the reactor clean, in working order? Why should he have to come here and fix it in the first place?

                Sephiroth wonders when he stopped feeling this way about the slums—was it just Aerith? Did she numb him to the dirtiness of it all, make him a _part_ of the filth and decay?

                _come_

                He climbs the stairs to the reactor, after instructing blond Strife to stay with their guide, young Miss Lockhart. He’s irritated with her impatience, her childish insistence on coming into the reactor with him, but he makes it clear that the trooper is to keep her outside, and he complies.

                As he and Zack enter the reactor, Sephiroth feels a chill creep up his spine. The problem with the reactor is easily fixed, a loose valve that Zack repairs with no problem. But there is something so strange here, so compelling, so unnerving.

                The tanks are full of people—well, what were people at one point. Now they have been bathed in Mako to the point of being twisted into monsters, barren of all humanity. They are deformed, pathetic creatures that look at once terrifying and agonized. Zack is horror-stricken—he almost drops his sword in surprise, but this discovery does not stop the tugging in the back of Sephiroth’s mind…

                Zack is speaking, but Sephiroth can’t understand him. The entire world is tuned out, and Sephiroth’s heart begins racing as his eyes fix upon one word written above the locked door at the top of the reactor: JENOVA.

                _Come, Sephiroth, come…_

He could not stop himself if he wanted to; he is pulled inexorably towards the steps, and he climbs them slowly. The voice is pulling him, his legs are moving without his knowledge, his very being seems to be drawn up to that door. He can’t stop, and he doesn’t want to. The only thing in the world that seems important is that door, and what is on the other side of it.

                The rest of this worthless world can wait. Sephiroth’s gloved hand grasps the handle, and he pulls open the door to meet whatever he is destined to find.

* * *

 

                Aerith can’t help her feeling of worry lately. It’s gotten worse and worse as the days tick by that Sephiroth is gone, and she almost misses the presence of the Turks—it was a connection to Sephiroth, at least, and somehow he must have managed to call off the investigation, because she hasn’t seen one of those navy blue suits in weeks.

                She starts trimming the flowers to place in her basket, she is determined to go out and make at least a few gil today. Just because Sephiroth is gone, and just because she hasn’t heard from him in days, well, that’s no reason to stop working, surely. And she has to _feed_ herself, for Gaia’s sake. It isn’t like Aerith to be consumed with worry; it’s not like her to be so distracted. She is a survivor above all else, and she thinks with a heavy heart that she can survive anything at this point.

                Gaia has been constantly whispering in her ear lately, but Aerith has become so proficient at ignoring Her, since she met Sephiroth, that it barely bothers her. Calamity. Trouble. Always the same thing, and she refuses to let Gaia fuel her fears even more.

                Aerith hears footsteps at the front of her church, and she feels the usual trepidation in the pit of her stomach at the navy blue suit before seeing the black shoulder-length hair spilling over the familiar fabric. It’s Tseng—by far the best of the Turks.

                “Tseng!” Aerith says, and she’s surprised at how eager she sounds to see him. Normally, their routine is to ignore each other, or exchange a few strained words, pretend that she is not a prisoner with a larger cell than most. But now that the investigation into _her_ has been pulled off, maybe he has news of Sephiroth’s mission.

                Tseng looks at her with surprise. “Aerith. You’re looking well.”

                “Are you here about Sephiroth?” she asks desperately.

                An unreadable expression comes over his face, and Tseng walks over to her, silent as a cat. Aerith immediately regrets asking when Tseng grabs her by the arm with one firm hand—not hard enough to hurt, Tseng doesn’t seem like he’d ever hurt her—but there’s an urgency in his touch that Aerith finds unsettling.

                “You’ve heard from Sephiroth?” Tseng asks her. “When? When did you speak to him?”

                “A—A few days ago,” Aerith stammers, cold dread washing over her body. “He called—he was outside of Nibelheim—he said everything was okay.”

                Tseng’s grip on her tightens. “And have you heard from him since then?”

                “No,” Aerith says, trying to force the hot tears back. “Not a word.”

                He releases her and steps back. “I’m sorry, Aerith. When you asked, I had hoped that you had heard from him a little…more recently than that.”

                “What’s happening?” Aerith cries. “Tell me what’s going on.”

                Tseng shakes his head. “It’s business. Classified.”

                Aerith steps closer to Tseng so that her bright eyes meet his. There is fury etched on every plane of her beautifully formed face, hot fury for the first time that Tseng has ever seen. “Listen to me,” she spits. “I know there’s a problem. Tell me what is going on. Tell me what is happening with Sephiroth this _minute_ or I will curse you with all the power of the Cetra, Tseng.” Is this a real thing? Aerith doesn’t know, but her anger pushes her forth. “I will call upon my ancesters,” she warns. “I will call upon them and they will _curse you._ ”

                Tseng takes a step back. He does not believe in curses, but he certainly believes in the abilities of the Ancients, and besides that, he genuinely likes Aerith and wants to give her what she wants anyway. “You know Sephiroth is in Nibleheim,” he says quietly. “That’s all we know. He went to investigate a reactor, and we’ve lost all contact with him. Our other operatives say he has locked himself away and refuses to leave.”

                Of all the things Aerith had been dreading, this was not one of them. Sephiroth, unwilling to leave? Unwilling to return to her? An unfamiliar fear creeps up her spine as she listens to Tseng.

                “We have no way of getting ahold of him. They’re going to deploy the Turks very soon, and I fear it’s going to end…violently,” Tseng admits.

                “Take me there,” Aerith demands.

                Tseng is already shaking his head. “There’s no way, Aerith. You’re not authorized, and even if I broke that rule, there’s nothing you could do. Sephiroth—something in him is broken. Something in him has always _been_ broken, and there’s nothing that you can do to help. You’re not to leave Midgar.”

“There has to be something I can do,” she whispers, her voice close to breaking.

                Tseng looks up at the repaired church ceiling. “You can pray,” he suggests.

                Aerith scoffs and shakes her head, her long braid flipping over one shoulder. Gaia doesn’t care about this. Gaia has never cared about Sephiroth, she thinks resentfully. She glares at Tseng, but she’s struck by his sorrowful look.

                “Aerith,” he says softly. “It’s all we have.”

                As Tseng exits, with the admonition again to stay within the borders of Midgar, Aerith sinks to the floor, the familiar scent of earth enveloping her. When Aerith’s heart breaks, the world blurs, and when Aerith weeps, Gaia weeps too.

* * *

 

                Sephiroth is laughing, and it’s high and cold and deadly. They want a hero? He’ll give them a _god._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look what they do to you  
> Look what they do to me  
> Must be joking if you think that either one is free, here
> 
> Get up off your knees, girl  
> Stand face to face with your God  
> And find out what you are  
> Hello, my name is human  
> And I came down from the stars."
> 
> \- "My Name Is Human", Highly Suspect

                Aerith feels empty without Sephiroth’s embrace around her, and Gaia is whispering. How long has she been curled up next to her flowers, remembering how it felt to be intertwined with Sephiroth’s strong form? How long has she been waiting?

                Gaia keeps whispering nonsense, but Aerith almost can’t hear it, she’s been blocking Her out for so long. She’s so sick of being bothered like this. She is bereft, worried, almost paralyzed with fear for herself and for Sephiroth, and all Gaia seems to do is whisper warnings. Suddenly Aerith feels a flash of heat come over her, a wave of fury that shocks her even as it empowers her.

                “Fine!” Aerith seethes, getting to her feet. There is anger in her, hot anger that she hasn’t felt in a long time. “I’m right here! I have listened to You! I have heard You! I am Your daughter, but You have never been there for me!”

                Gaia is suddenly, blessedly, silent.

                “I believed in You! I trusted You! But You have not kept me safe— _Sephiroth_ kept me safe, and You never cared about him!” Tears are streaming down her face as she shouts at nothing, nothing at all but a presence, a feeling that never deserted her. Aerith is Gaia’s daughter above all else, but in this helpless moment, she feels betrayed, cast out. The prodigal daughter.

                _Trust me._

Aerith doesn’t want to trust, she wants action. She is angry at Gaia, _angry_ that she is nothing but a helpless flower girl and has no hope of rescuing Sephiroth from whatever darkness has taken hold. How is she supposed to trust Gaia when Gaia has _never_ given Sephiroth the benefit of the doubt, never done anything but try to scare Aerith away from the one man who promised her to take her away from the iron grip of ShinRa?

                _Open yourself up to me._

                “To you?” she cries. “I’ve spent years blocking you out! You are not a goddess of mercy! Go help Sephiroth! _He_ needs you, not me! If you ever loved me—” her voice breaks. “If you loved me, you would know that I can’t lose him too. Help him.”

_You will help him. Let me in._

                Aerith knows what Gaia wants—the walls she’s built up torn down, her boundaries crossed, allowing Gaia access to her very self. Aerith is so angry—angry at Gaia for not helping her and Sephiroth, angry at herself for being so helpless in the first place. But if there’s a chance she can help him—if there is a chance that Aerith, with Gaia’s guidance, can stop whatever darkness has taken hold—she has no choice. Since the moment their lips first met, she has been wrecked, blasted and damned, and the possibility of _not_ going after Sephiroth does not exist.

                She closes her eyes and pictures walls crumbling, doors opening. She pictures dams breaking and rivers overflowing. She imagines herself as stretched open, her mind opening, allowing Gaia in for the first time since she was a small child, too young to understand. Her fingers splay wide without her knowledge as she stretches the borders of her consciousness, trying to make room for something as unfamiliar as the Planet’s own Consciousness.

                It happens in an instant. A flash of bright light and a bolt of knowledge and Aerith’s eyes glow green as they are infused with the power of the Lifestream.

                A flash of pain, a moment of terror, and then pure understanding.

                “Gaia,” Aerith says, and her voice sounds calm, deeper, somehow unfamiliar to herself. Unfamiliar, but steely, a note of strength she could never have managed on her own. Gaia's prodigal daughter, returned. “Guide me.”

                In response, Aerith feels herself being pulled into in the warm caress of her ancestors, the Cetra who tell her exactly what to do. Their voices are no longer nonsensical, warnings that make no sense, murmuring in languages long forgotten. Now, she understands perfectly. _Take a deep breath,_ someone warns. _Go to him,_ they tell her. _Close your eyes._

                Aerith takes a deep breath, and the heat increases, the intensity building. Her previous self would have screamed but Aerith understands to hold still, to hold her breath, to let Gaia Herself pull her in, in, in, the pressure terrific and building every second, the pain increases and it becomes unbearable—

                And then she opens her eyes. Aerith looks up and there are tall mountains that she has never seen before, but she knows in her heart she is right outside of Nibelheim. The crisp mountain air revitalizes her, and then Aerith smells smoke.

                With crystal clarity, Gaia shows her a burning village, and a shard of ice pierces her heart as Aerith breaks into a run.

* * *

 

                Nibelheim is on fire. It’s the image that Gaia has been showing her in the past, a village with flames stretching up towards the sky, reaching out of windows, devouring anything in their path.

                People are screaming, begging, praying for deliverance, and Aerith is helpless in the face of chaos. Aerith summons up Gaia’s strength and walks through Nibelheim, impervious to the shrieking and the stench of burning flesh and breaking hearts.

                She can’t see herself, so she doesn’t realize that her skin is bright, almost glowing, and she doesn’t notice that her very presence eases the pain of the agonized villagers as she passes by. She doesn’t think about where she’s going or why, she simply puts one foot in front of the other, intuiting the path that Gaia wants her to take.

                Aerith does not allow herself to slow down, to look around, even, and so she doesn’t see the way the flames die down as she passes by. The inferno dims, and their pain is eased just by her walking through the town with the power of the Lifestream at her command, and she does not notice.

                The part of her that is not encased in Gaia’s influence is heartbroken. Sephiroth set this town on fire, she is absolutely certain, and as she sees the bodies stack up she feels something unbelievable—the embers of hatred beginning to burn deep in her heart, for a man who could turn into a monster on a moment’s notice like this. How could Sephiroth burn a whole town? What kind of monster is he? How could she not see it? How could she not listen?

                The Ancestors are speaking to her like they have never been able to before—they are cogent, coherent. They understand her questions, and for once, they actually answer what really matters.

                _Something fell from the sky thousands of years ago,_ one of them tells her as Aerith begins her ascent from the base of Mount Nibel. _It was an alien, and we called it the Calamity from the Sky. Her goal was to destroy Gaia and move on. They call her Jenova, now._

A dragon swoops in. Aerith lets the power of Gaia flow through her, and she uses magic she had no idea she possessed to freeze the Nibel Dragon where it stands. _She turned us against each other. She appeared as our brothers and sisters, as our Cetra family, as monsters created from chaos. She fed off of hatred. She sowed it whenever she could._

Aerith keeps going, her eyes hot with unshed tears. She feels no pain, she is not tired. _Sephiroth has Jenova’s cells in him. But these are not the actions of the Sephiroth you know. Jenova’s influence is strong—and you will not win against her if you allow her to manipulate your emotions. Jenova fed off hatred, and hatred that was warped from love was her delight._

“I understand,” she whispers. She thinks about the pain that striped Sephiroth’s voice when he talked about his past, talked about Hojo. She thinks about Sephiroth confiding in her that he still felt the chains on him to this day.

                The Ancestors are encouraging her. They counsel love, wariness of Jenova. They show her their own experiences, when Jenova descended and turned them against each other, making them see their own kind as ravening animals, soulless monsters.

                The Ancestors counsel love, but Gaia keeps silent.

                Aerith keeps climbing. She’s acquired a staff along the way from a traveler dead in the road—who would climb up these perilous mountains alone?—and it was a light weapon she felt she could use with mild success. Not that she needs it—with Gaia running through her blood, beasts are powerless before her. Her hair has come loose from the long, neat braid, and the chestnut strands fall loose down her back, but nothing slows her down.

                I won’t let you make me doubt him, she had promised Gaia before, and she tries to call up her courage and gather that perfect, pure faith again, and send that thought like a dart towards the dark presence of the Calamity.

                Aerith is coming. Against all things ending, she is coming.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't fucking breathe, much less believe the truth  
> I pick up a gun, aim for his head, and shoot  
> Better days, so unafraid in my youth  
> I can't breathe or believe the truth"
> 
> \- "Lydia", Highly Suspect

                Sephiroth’s head hurts as he sweeps his gaze across the reactor. There’s that little Lockhart guide—out cold, he knocked her down a flight of stairs, but what else was he to do? She ran at him with his own sword, and how could he accept that kind of defiance?

                Zack is coming, Sephiroth knows that, and probably his little trooper boy as well. Fine. Sephiroth does not care who he kills. They all deserve to die anyway, and then he and Jenova will be worshipped the way they should have been this whole time.

                _He_ is an Ancient. Jenova should have been the ruler of this planet, but these ignorant insects—these filthy traitors…he should retrieve his mother. They can rule the planet together…

                “The arrow has left the bow of the Goddess,” comes a silky voice Sephiroth had not expected to hear again. Not in this life. But there is the red hair, and the crimson coat, and it’s one of the very few people Sephiroth had ever halfway cared about—but Genesis’ degradation looks worse now, like his body is rotting his life away.

                 “You’re looking well, Sephiroth,” Genesis says, resentful. “Unlike myself.”

                “You’re still alive,” Sephiroth says flatly. He would have been happy to find this out, happy to avoid losing one of the few people he values, but now he just sees Genesis as another traitor, another player in this game that has damned them all.

                “I suppose. If you can call this living,” the slender redhead says. “I see you’re back in the reactor—and all alone! You’ve decided to return to your roots, then, Sephiroth?”

                Sephiroth ignores him. Traitor. Filth.

               “Soldier 1st Class Sephiroth! Jenova Project G gave birth to Angeal and monsters like myself. Jenova project S used the remains of countless failed experiments to create a perfect monster.”

                “You knew,” Sephiroth snarls. “You knew about these projects, these experiments. You knew, and you never told me where I came from—what I _was_ —”

                “You’re that perfect monster, Sephiroth,” Genesis interrupts, his tone smooth as silk. “A perfect monster whose cells do not degrade—whose body cannot decay. I need your cells, Sephiroth, to restore me to health. My friend, your desire is the bringer of life, the gift of the goddess.”

                “You’re mad,” Sephiroth says, matter of fact. “There is no goddess and there is no god. You’re degrading because you’re of an inferior race—and there is no cure for that, _my friend.”_

                Genesis’ eyes spark with anger. “Inferior to you, Sephiroth? Inferior to the man who went his whole life and believed every story that ShinRa sold him—the man whose very existence was bought and paid for by SOLDIER itself?” He laughs. “Poor little Sephiroth.”

                “Whether your words are lies created to deceive me or a part of the truth that I have sought all my life, it makes no difference. You will rot,” Sephiroth spits, his voice deep and dark, anger coursing beneath it like a flooding river. The anger that had been barely been held in check for years is flowing, pushing against him like a swelling tidal wave.

                “I see, perfect monster indeed,” Genesis says. “They bred you well, I think.”

                _Kill him,_ Jenova whispers, and Sephiroth draws Masamune without thinking about whose idea it is. Does Sephiroth want to kill Genesis, or does Jenova? Does it matter? Genesis draws his sword too, the obsidian blade infused with materia. Sephiroth cannot imagine why Genesis is challenging him to combat when everyone knows that there has never been a greater swordsman than he, and there never will be, and in the back of his mind Jenova urges him on. Jenova urges him to dispatch this little insect who dares to think he is on the same level as them. Sephiroth is so far above the others, he may as well be a different species—and that’s the truth that everyone has been hiding, isn’t it?

                 The door to the reactor slams as it’s thrown open with great force. It’s Zack, Sephiroth knows it, and he goes to confront the eager puppy as well, but no, it’s a woman—a vision in pink and red and long chestnut hair and oh, God, oh, no. His thoughts are a whirlpool, and for the first time in his adult life, Sephiroth feels his hands tremble. What is she doing here? What is _he_ doing?

                “ _Aerith_!” he cries, and Jenova screams in the back of his mind to kill her as well. Kill her! “Aerith, my God, get out of here!”

                Aerith strides in, and something is different about her. Her features are steady, strong. Her eyes—oh, God, her eyes are the bright, glowing shade of those who have been mako-infused. What has _happened?_ Sephiroth does not like to be confused but oh, God, he doesn’t understand; can this really be his flower girl, his holy grail?

                “Stop,” she says, and her voice is soft, but somehow deeper and darker than before. “Sephiroth. Stop this. I’m here.”

                _Kill her!_ Jenova screeches, an edge of desperation filleting the sides of his mind. Oh, his head. His head hurts. _Kill the brat before she undermines you!_

                “Who are _you_?” Genesis asks.

                “A flower girl.” Aerith comes closer to both men, who are poised like big cats, ready to pounce in an instant--they are ready for the attack. Her heart is pounding, but Aerith refuses to fail. Gaia is giving her power, but Aerith’s words and actions are entirely her own and she knows she will get only one chance to fix this. “I’m a flower girl from the slums, and I’m the last of the Cetra.”

                “Did you know what I am?” Sephiroth asks, and she almost doesn’t recognize the cold, detached tone. “Did you know where I come from? Did you know I have Ancient blood, too?”

                “Jenova is not a Cetra,” she tells Sephiroth, her voice quiet but absolute, _commanding_. She demands attention, and both men are riveted by the power in her voice. “Jenova is what the Cetra called the Calamity from the Sky—she wiped us out, turned us against each other. Jenova damaged Gaia almost beyond repair…”

                “And you _know_ this?” Sephiroth demands. “You’re an Ancient—you should have told me! Somebody—should have told me!”

                “I didn’t know before, Sephiroth,” Aerith says firmly. “But I understand now. Hojo and my father found Jenova and assumed she was an Ancient, but they were _wrong_ , Sephiroth. I know, because Gaia knows. I know, because my ancestors know. Don’t listen to Jenova.”

                Sephiroth wants to deny it, but Genesis is laughing. “I told you! You’re no hero, Sephiroth, and you’re no god. You’re a _monster_ , bred in a mako tank from another monster.”

                Aerith’s voice softens. “Sephiroth, you’re not a monster.”

                “Look around you! Look at these tanks! Look at the monsters inside them. This is where I come from—this is my legacy.” He can feel Jenova in the back of his mind, urging him onward, telling him he comes from power, comes from something _better_ than the Ancients. _Kill the brat!_

                “I’m not even a human being.” His voice is harder than stone, but Aerith is not put off.

                “Neither am I,” she says. “I’m not human either.”

                “But you’re not like this,” he says, the bitter taste of anger and betrayal coating his tongue. “Bred like an animal. Raised in a tank. I always thought mine was a special existence, but not like this. Now I see—where the darkness inside me comes from. I should never have spoken a single word to you. I should never have—” Sephiroth is suddenly cut off, his tongue strangling around his own words, as he tries to beseech Aerith for forgiveness for ever having shown up in the slums and been a part of her life at all.

                _Kill her!_ This time Jenova is commanding, and Sephiroth feels the sudden detachment from his own body. Jenova not only is urging him, directing him, but since he is not following her orders she has reached her tendrils out and wrapped them around his own mind, and commands his body to lift his sword, to grasp it, to lunge.

                “No!” a chorus, Sephiroth and Aerith at once, but they are only begging against time itself at this point.

                Genesis sees Sephiroth’s quick movement and interprets it immediately as a threat and lunges as well, until they are fighting mercilessly, meeting each other blow for blow. Sephiroth knows from experience that Genesis begins with flashy, fast movements, but he runs out of stamina—he will fight himself into a corner eventually, whereas Sephiroth can fight for hours and never tire. Jenova has released her hold slightly on Sephiroth’s mind. His combat abilities are unparalleled, and Jenova allows Sephiroth to fight Genesis under his own control, since she knows if Sephiroth lets his guard down, Genesis will kill him in a moment. There is nothing playful about their fighting, they are both deadly serious and will fight to the death. Jenova is in the back of his mind tugging on him, and Sephiroth can already see Aerith dead by his own hand. Genesis will die—nobody can beat Sephiroth—and then it will be Aerith’s turn.

                He pictures the smooth, thin blade of Masamune piercing her perfect creamy skin, and tries to shout a warning. He isn't sure if he is imagining this or if Jenova is showing him, but he sees himself leaping from above, driving that blade deep into her abdomen, echoes of her last smile on her lips as he stands in her blood, revels in death. Oh, and he will do it, he knows. He _will_ kill Aerith, he will murder in cold blood the only person who has ever held him, touched him, maybe she could even have loved him.

               “Get away, Aerith! Leave, for God’s sake!” he manages to shout as he drives Genesis back.

                “No! _Stop_!” she begs, feeling her eyes burn with unshed tears as she watches, helplessly, the most terrible fight she will ever see. They are brothers, in a sense, both borne of mako, and Jenova is orchestrating a fight to the death between the two.

 Aerith senses Jenova in Sephiroth, she senses which movements are his and which thoughts are Jenova’s, pulling on him like a puppet. Chains of mako, and now puppet strings, Aerith thinks desperately, and she begs Gaia to deliver them all from this madness. Aerith is pleading for salvation, but it feels impossibly out of reach. “Sephiroth, _please_! No!”

                Aerith feels Gaia’s power flow through her blood, unbidden, and the air crackles with electricity, her hair beginning to float, to rise with the current in the air. She shouts again.

                “ _No!”_

                Her voice is deep, echoing, and before Sephiroth can even realize what has happened, he feels his knees slam against the hard reactor floor, and he realizes with a jolt—no, it can’t be, it’s impossible, but it’s true—Aerith has brought him to his knees with her words. In shock, he turns his head slightly and sees Genesis fall as well, a _crack_ as he drops to his knees as well, less than a second following Sephiroth.

                Her hands are glowing, ghostly, her face upturned, twisted with anger and fear and raw power. It transforms her, making her more beautiful and more terrible than ever before. “ _I said stop!”_

                She raises her hands, which pushes both men further down on their knees. Neither of them can stand up in the presence of such power, the power of Gaia Herself. The strongest men in the world, and they can do nothing but obey. Aerith feels a flash of fear at the sight of these two elite soldiers kneeling before her, exposing the back of their necks, waiting for her judgment.

She never wanted this—who wants this kind of power? This kind of responsibility? She never meant to make them bow…Aerith does not know what to do with this raw energy, but she models her blank expression after the Sephiroth she had come to love, so that none of her fear shows through.

                Genesis tries to move, to stand back up, but Aerith keeps him kneeling with a push of her hand. Sephiroth is struggling against his invisible bonds as well, and as he has spent so much of his life chained up, Aerith is loath to keep him held in bondage. Aerith almost wishes Gaia would take over, work through her as she did on her ascent, but what decisions come now will be solely her responsibility, and she can’t take the risk of Jenova striking out again, using Sephiroth as her tool, her hands, an extension of herself.

                _Jenova._ Aerith can sense the presence, anathema to her, serpentine and deadly. She understands the nature of the Calamity, and she can feel its presence in Sephiroth’s own mind, and she can feel the cells degrading inside Genesis’ decaying body.

                Aerith knows of only one prayer that can heal, that can strip away the disease of body and mind alike. Gaia, she has only one chance. One chance. _Let me be right,_ she begs.

                “Let me go,” Sephiroth says, flat affect. He will not beg. Love or no love, Jenova or no Jenova, Sephiroth cannot beg. “Let me stand.”

                Aerith shakes her head, and she presses her lips together. Will Sephiroth love her after this? Will he be capable of loving someone who can do things no one should be able to do, who can know the unknowable? Her heart is breaking, telling her to let him up, to draw him into her arms, but she has but one word for him. “No.”

                Instead the reactor crumbles around them, the top flying off, the sides falling to pieces. Metal flies everywhere—they are in the middle of it, these three are the center, the eye of the storm, the moment upon which Gaia depends.

                “What are you doing?” Sephiroth asks. “You’ll kill us all!” Genesis says nothing, but his face is a mix of emotions. Revlusion, _hatred_ at being forced into obedience, but also awe and wonder.

                Aerith does not answer, but the maelstrom around them grows. The pieces of the reactor fly around, a whirlwind inside which the future hinges.

                The reactor crumbles, and the three of them still stand on the ground floor—everything has fallen outwards, a ring around the age-old riddle of an immovable object and an unstoppable force.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And all the kids cried out, "Please stop, you're scaring me"  
> I can't help this awful energy  
> God damn right, you should be scared of me  
> Who is in control?"
> 
> \- "Control", Halsey

 

                “You’re sick,” Aerith says. “Genesis—you're Genesis Rhapsodos, aren't you?—you’re degrading because of the Jenova cells inside you. Jenova is rotting your bodies, destroying your minds, both of you. Cells won’t heal you, Genesis. Jenova won’t save anyone.”

                Sephiroth feels Jenova inside his head protesting, no, not protesting but _screaming_ , and her will pours into his mind like a broken dam. He feels that strange, detached feeling again, like he’s watching his body instead of controlling it. It’s too loose but also too tight, and he can see his limbs shaking as they fight against the weight of the Aerith’s bindings.

                “No,” he gasps, and with a surge of pain, he is standing, staggering. Genesis is still down, sweat pouring down his immaculate face, but Sephiroth—no, _Jenova—_ is standing.

                Aerith raises one hand again, and it’s like the air has been made solid, a ton of bricks pressing down on every part of his body, Sephiroth _wants_ to go down, but Jenova is pushing back just as hard. Sephiroth fists his hands together, but he feels them flatten out of their own accord, grasp his sword, he feels the solid hilt pressing into his hands, so hard the pain is almost bruising. Jenova seems to have noticed that her willing puppet is fighting her now, and she pushes herself even further into Sephiroth’s mind.

                He has no control.

                “Aerith, run,” he tries to shout, the words coming out strangled and slurred.

                Aerith’s eyes glow brighter than before, and she lifts her staff with one hand, the other one still facing palm out in a ‘stop’ motion.

                “Stop it, Jenova,” she says imperiously. Her voice is commanding, and Sephiroth and Aerith both recognize that it really isn’t her voice at all. “This is the end.”

                Sephiroth hears himself laughing, long and cold as ice. He can’t stop, can’t force his mouth shut, and he can’t stop himself from hearing that terrible, insane sound, either. With no warning, he lunges at Aerith, and the silver blade of Masamune streaks through the air. A silent scream echoes as he watches the blade come down, almost as if it’s in slow motion, because these are Aerith’s last moments, he knows it, and he must bear witness to all of it. Sephiroth knows that he must watch Aerith’s death so that he can replay it, punish himself to the ends of the Planet for failing in such monstrous ways.

                Sephiroth watches, but Aerith blocks the blow with her simple wooden staff. It’s impossible— _impossible—_ but the staff holds up, and they are off, whirling around each other.

                He is trying to hold himself back, trying to drag Jenova away from her ironclad control, but he can do nothing, nothing but watch helplessly as Aerith fights in a way that he could never even have imagined before. They are a blur of energy, with Aerith’s skin glowing brighter with every block that she makes, every powerful blow that she dodges. Her eyes are so bright that no one can look at them, not even Sephiroth. Her pupils are obliterated.

                Aerith is trying not to be afraid, she is trying to surrender control to Gaia, but oh, it’s so hard when this is _Sephiroth,_ whom she loves. She allows the power to flow through her body, her blood crackling with control, and Gaia is finally fighting the battle that She lost thousands of years ago.

                The fight feels endless, but Aerith is trusting Gaia, until she recognizes with one very near miss that Gaia is fighting not to contain a threat, but for blood. There is no mercy in Gaia’s attack, and Aerith knows with a bolt that Gaia intends for Sephiroth, as Jenova’s avatar, to die in this reactor. To die, at Aerith’s hand.

                The Ancestors tug on Aerith, lovingly trying to pull her into the Lifestream. They tell her to let Gaia handle this fight, because Gaia has been waiting so long for a chance to strike back against the Calamity, and Gaia knows what needs to be done. They envelop her in love and warmth, telling her to stay with them, stay with them and don’t watch, dear one, don’t look, don’t look, don't look.

                The Ancestors mean well, but Aerith will not allow another person to be ripped from her.

                Aerith takes a breath and gathers up all her energy, feeling the power in her hands grow until they are unbearably hot. She pushes Gaia back, regaining control with a scream and almighty thrust. She uses all the gathered energy to shove Sephiroth back hard, and for a moment

                for a sudden, silent moment

time stops, and all is still

                _“Don’t kill him_!” Aerith screams.

                The voice of Gaia has never been as clear as it is right now. _Aerith, they have to die. Jenova. The Calamity is the bringer of Death._

                “That’s Jenova,” she begs. “That’s not these men. That’s not Sephiroth.”

                _Jenova killed the Cetra. You were my people._

                “I can cure him. I can.”

                The moment of truth is upon them in an instant. Jenova is forcing Sephiroth to his feet, forcing him back into the battle. The time for the decision is upon them now, because if they hesitate, they will be lost all over again.

                “I haven’t been a good daughter, but I’m your daughter,” Aerith says, her voice low. “I’m your daughter. Please.”

                Aerith’s eyes glow again, the green so intense that it’s almost as if the sun has come down onto these dark and terrible mountains. Sephiroth is forced down again, he feels his hands once again secured into place by absolutely nothing. He begins to struggle in earnest, against his own will. Sephiroth thinks maybe Aerith should just kill him, right now, kill him and get this hateful presence out of his head, and then maybe things will be right again—then they, at least, might live.

                Aerith’s powerful face is tilted up at the sun, and she has her answer.   

                Sephiroth is not sure what to expect next, but Aerith dropping to her knees as well is not what he would have dreamed of. She kneels as well, tenderly, and presses her palms together, an obvious prayer. Her face is bowed, and then she tilts it up to the heavens, unbothered by the whipping winds and sounds of agony.

                A moment of prayer and the turmoil dies down in an instant. The pieces of the reactor that were flying around during their battle fall to the ground instantly, the winds die down and the silence is somehow more deadly than the cacophonous noise.

                Both men look up, their invisible bindings still holding them in place. “Is it—raining?” Genesis asks, straining, as the first drops darken his hair, and then the pain hits him. The rain is agony on his skin, it’s a burning pain that feels like it goes all the way past his skin, past his muscles and his bones into his very marrow, his very _being._ Genesis cries out, and when he manage to glance at Sephiroth, he sees Sephiroth’s cat-slit eyes rolling with pain, sweat breaking out on his brow, but he does not cry out, he does not roll in pain, and Sephiroth does not beg..

                The rain is one of the most painful things Sephiroth has ever experienced but somehow there is a purification to it too, the kind of cleansing that only comes with fire. Fire is the ultimate purifier, and Aerith has set their very _selves_ on fire to purge them.

                Aerith sees their pain, and she is not sorry.

                She can see Genesis, less composed than Sephiroth, groaning in agony, Sephiroth attempting to master himself, to hide the pain etched across his fine features, but he can’t, because this pain is not just the pain of electric shocks from Hojo, not just the pain of swords and bullets in Wutai. This pain is inside him, and he cannot escape it. Aerith knows these men need this pain, they need these moments of cleansing to be reborn, and to numb this agony would be to devalue it.

                It lasts forever.

                But after that forever has passed, it eventually fades. Sephiroth can hear Jenova in the back of his mind screaming, writhing in agony, and her chilling scream fades eventually. Sephiroth notices the difference immediately—the voice in the back of his head is gone, disappeared completely, and he feels lighter somehow, the darkness that has driven him for so long no longer demanding anger and hatred.

                Their bindings loosen as their physical features morph as well. Sephiroth’s pupils change from the cat-slit he’s so well known for to a large black circle, which leaves him blinking in surprise. His skin looks brighter, his body healthier, but it’s nothing on Genesis—Genesis, whose chalky complexion is now back to its normal color, pale but healthy, and his hair blooms bright once again as his Crimson Commander nickname suggests.

                Sephiroth gets to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the difference in pupil. He’s shaky but he’s whole, he’s alive, and so is Aerith, in all her glory. He stands, not sure what to do in this impossible moment, and then he notices that Genesis has not yet stood.

                Genesis touches his forehead to the ground, bowing to Aerith. “Infinite in mystery is the gift of the goddess,” he whispers, looking up, and then he touches the ground again, worshipping her. “Hero of dawn. Healer of worlds.”

                Aerith crouches down immediately, and Genesis dares a glance at this deity who has materialized and given him the cure that he has sought for so long. “Nope. I’m Aerith, the flower girl.”

                Genesis looks at her curiously. “You cured me,” he says, his voice full of hope. “It’s gone. The degradation. I feel it.”

                “I’m not a goddess,” Aerith says, her smile entirely her own. “I’m just a flower girl who happens to be the last of the Cetra. Gaia let me cure you. I can’t do this on my own. See?” And it’s true, thank Gaia, it’s true. Aerith feels the remaining tingles of power leave her fingertips, she sees the white hot glow of her hands fade. She’s herself again, with the whispers of the Cetra in the back of her mind again, a backdrop of her life she never thought she would welcome, but she does, she does.

                Genesis starts to stand, but the degradation and cure have both taken a toll on his body, and he ends up sitting, propped against the wreckage, watching Aerith with worshipful eyes. “Angeal?” he asks hopefully. Now that the degradation is gone, now that Jenova is gone, Genesis can finally focus on what really matters, can call up his oldest, dearest friend’s dark hair and open smile. “Did he—is he?”

                Aerith is beside him in an instant. “I’m sorry, Genesis. Angeal is gone.”

                Genesis deflates, and his crimson head hangs low. “You should have saved Angeal,” Genesis says bitterly. “Not me. He was the best of all of us, and we—we all knew it.”

                Aerith shakes her head. “We were able to save _you_. You’re worthy, Genesis.”

                “Could we not both have been saved?” His voice hitches, and Aerith places one arm against his shoulder, holding him.

                “Genesis,” she says, her sweet voice as beautiful to Sephiroth as the first day he heard it. “Sometimes the only thing people can do is save what can be saved.”

                Genesis stares at her as though he’s seen the face of the Goddess. It has been so much darkness for so long; can it really be so simple?

                “Save what you can,” Aerith whispers, pressing her cool fingers against his cheek, and Genesis leans into the contact, eager for a brush with the almighty.

                Aerith finally, finally turns her gaze towards Sephiroth. She has never seen the pain in his eyes that she sees now. “Sephiroth…”

                He is pale and still. He shakes his head, eyes closed. “I set a town on fire,” he says, flat. “I am a murderer.”

                “You killed many in Wutai,” Genesis points out. “Is it not the same thing?”

                “No, you fool! That was war—this was just—unforgivable.”

                Aerith opens her mouth to protest, but Genesis beats her there. “My friend, in Wutai we simply followed orders. Were you not now simply following orders, but from another source?”

                Sephiroth looks around the wreckage of the reactor. “I would have killed you,” he says to Aerith, and she recognizes the plea in those five words.

She tries on a small smile. “Sephiroth, please listen, nobody understands the depths of Jenova’s power like the Cetra. I felt Jenova’s power, and that wasn’t you. I felt her in the back of your mind, she twisted your own desires.”

                Sephiroth almost crumbles like the child he was never allowed to be, but he feels Aerith’s arms around him, and he composes himself. “I have to atone for this,” he tells her, his face breathing in the vanilla scent of her hair. “I will.”

                “Everyone atones in the end,” Aerith whispers, standing on her toes so that her lips are just inches away from him. “Gaia understands.”

                This she tells him softly, kindly, the way she whispers to her flowers. It’s gentle but not weak, these words are solid rock in the shifting magma of pain and betrayal, they are something he can hold on to, that will not collapse under the weight of the things he has done. These words she gives him like a gift, and with unshed tears in his eyes, Sephiroth accepts.


	10. Chapter 10

                Sephiroth can hear the footsteps pounding up the side of the mountain before anyone else. Aerith still has her head gently resting against his chest, and she feels him tense up. Genesis stands, finally. He seems steadier than he was before, and the last vestiges of the degradation are gone.

                “Hey—hey! Sephiroth—are you here?” It’s Zack Fair, and right behind him is the blond trooper, Strife.

                Zack stops as soon as the wreckage comes into view. “Holy hell,” he breathes. “What happened?”

                Before Sephiroth can even speak, Zack continues forward, squinting to make Sephiroth’s face come into view more clearly. “Your eyes look weird.”

                Sephiroth feels a flash of irritation. “Would now be a good time for me to respond to your questions, Fair?”

                “Yeah, sorry. Sorry.” Zack runs a hand through his wild dark hair, his expression both filled with dread and curiosity. “There was a fire—we stopped to help put it out, but suddenly it was like it burnt itself out or something, weirdest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”

                Sephiroth opens his mouth again to speak, but again he’s cut off by Zack’s exuberance. “Genesis? Is that you? Hey, you found Genesis! Genesis, this is Cloud—”

                “Fair, would you be _quiet_?” Sephiroth says, louder than he really means to.

                Zack falls silent, and then his eyes light on Aerith—he visibly holds himself back from commenting on Aerith’s presence as well. She waves at him sheepishly, feeling foolish. How can they ever explain what happened up here to Zack, to his friend, Cloud? How can they ever make anyone else understand the immensity of what just happened on this empty Nibel mountain?

                 There is a moment of silence, and then Sephiroth speaks.

                “I set the village on fire,” he says quietly.

                “Under Jenova’s influence,” Aerith quickly adds. “He was possessed by the spirit of the Calamity—the abomination that destroyed the Cetra.”

                “I saw you walk through the flames,” Zack says softly. “I thought you might have done it—but I didn’t want to believe it.”

                “It wasn’t him,” Aerith insists. “It was Jenova.”

                “Jenova?” Zack and Cloud exchange confused glances.

                Genesis tosses his hair back. Oh, gods, Sephiroth thinks, none of them have ever heard a speech by Genesis Rhapsodos before.

                “There were a series of projects called the Jenova Project,” he begins, his loud voice theatrical, just dramatic enough to draw them in without being overblown. “Project G used Jenova’s cells to create myself…and Angeal.”

                At Angeal’s name, pain shutters across Zack and Sephiroth. This is one life they will never be able to save, no matter what they do.  Genesis’ voice fades for a moment, but picks up in strength again.

                “Project S created Sephiroth. Angeal and I began to degrade because our…enhancements…were not as advanced as Sephiroth’s. Sephiroth cannot degrade, but Jenova, whose genes gave us our abilities, took him over and controlled him—like a puppet. Like a toy.”

                Zack holds a hand up. “Wait—Jenova? Your _mother_?”

                Sephiroth winces. “It’s—it’s complicated, Fair.”

                “You guys need to destroy her,” Aerith pipes up. “Um. I’m just saying. Her body is still in a tank buried in the snow, and she has to be completely destroyed so the experiments can stop.”

                Everyone turns to look at Aerith. She flushes slightly. “I really don’t have anything else to say, um, but you have to destroy her body.”

                “Yes,” Genesis muses. “Yes, we must destroy that which nearly destroyed us. There has to be punishment.”

                Sephiroth feels a slight wave of dread at the thoughtful look on Genesis’ face.

                “But who injected Jenova’s cells into our bodies? Who used us and made us vulnerable? We must destroy ShinRa as well, the entire company has profited from our exploitation.”

                “And from the Lifestream,” Aerith interjects. “They use mako for electricity—that’s the refined Lifestream, you know. They’ve had a strangehold on this world for so long…my mother used to say that once the ShinRa were gone, then Gaia would be okay again.”

                “Get rid of ShinRa,” Genesis repeats, a dreamy look in his eyes.

                Cloud is shaking his head. “This is crazy. How will we get rid of ShinRa? What are we going to tell them about what happened up here? There’s gonna be a whole reactor destroyed, and one of their prized specimens missing—”

                “We?” Sephiroth says. “You are an infantryman. Aerith is a flower girl. Both of you can go to Rocket Town and wait there, we can transport you somewhere up north—Icicle Inn, maybe—until this whole ShinRa thing is taken care of—”

                Everyone is speaking at once.

                “Where you go, I go,” Aerith says fiercely. “Don’t think it for a minute, Sephiroth. Not after everything. We go _together_.”

                “But it’s not safe for you,” he says, his eyes full of concern and tenderness.

                “Then it’s not safe for you.” Aerith is firm. No, there is no way after everything that happened, she would allow Sephiroth to go off on some crazy mission and leave her behind, to wait and wonder and worry.

                Sephiroth straightens up and smiles at Genesis. It’s a small smile, but it’s real. “It’s time the world had a new hero,” he tells Genesis, and he glances over at Zack and Cloud as well.

                “Aerith and I will go to Icicle Inn. I’ll get a new PHS immediately and you can get ahold of me if you ever need—advice. You know what you need to do, correct?” Sephiroth lowers his voice. “You know who needs to be killed?”

                “The President,” Genesis says.

                “Hojo,” Zack offers. “Scarlet.”

                Cloud is nodding solemnly. “All the Department Heads, right?”

                “However many it takes,” Sephiroth says. “There will be a mass panic in Midgar, so only move when you’re ready to take everyone out at once. You may want more people to help accomplish this, but make sure they have no ties to ShinRa.”

                “All the reactors need to be shut down,” Aerith says, feeling like this needs to be stressed. “Every one of them. Go to places like Cosmo Canyon and Kalm if you need help seeing how to get by without a reactor.”             

                “This is gonna be one hell of an undertaking,” Zack comments.

                “It’s the most important mission anyone can do,” Sephiroth says seriously. “Believe me—I’ve seen the power of Gaia. It was…singularly chilling. But if you don’t want to go, if you aren’t fully committed, don’t.”

                Zack scoffs. “Are you kidding, Sephiroth? These bastards killed Angeal. We’ll clean it up. We’ll clean this whole mess up, right, Spike? Genesis?”

                They all agree, and Aerith can’t quite believe that Sephiroth, the Silver General, is giving up on what he _himself_ called the greatest mission anyone could do—for her. She would almost feel guilty, if she wasn’t so relieved it was over.

                Sephiroth continues with their marching orders, but as he speaks, his hand doesn’t stray from Aerith’s waist.

                “Things have changed for you, have they, Sephiroth?” Genesis asks pointedly.

                “Yes,” he answers simply, with no shame or hesitation. “They have.”

 

* * *

 

                They manage to burn Jenova before the ShinRa troops arrive, and Genesis and Sephiroth come up with a cover story to tell, to keep ShinRa placid until the moment they are ready to decapitate the beast.

                Sephiroth drops Aerith’s hand for a moment and, after a pause, reaches out and hugs Genesis. It’s awkward and terrible, but they’re learning. Zack gives Sephiroth a much more enthusiastic hug, and Sephiroth even manages to embrace Cloud for about half a second.

                “I am proud of you, for doing this,” Sephiroth says, looking into Zack’s eyes. “Angeal is proud of you.”

                Aerith holds her breath as Sephiroth pulls out Masamune and then turns away and presents it to Genesis. “There’s no way they’ll believe anything you say unless you have this.”

                “What if you run into trouble?” Genesis inquires, but he’s already holding the long, slim weapon experimentally.

                “I’ll get something new,” Sephiroth says with a shrug. “A new sword. Maybe a gun.”

                There’s a shocked pause, and then a laugh. Sephiroth, joking? About _Masamune_?

                Well, anything is possible, now.

 

* * *

 

                “Are you ready?” Sephiroth asks Aerith. To be truthful, Aerith is beyond ready to leave this mountain, she can’t stand the smell of smoke and the sight of their company dismembering and burning Jenova left her feeling kind of sickened overall—but she knows that Sephiroth has been stalling, trying to give Genesis and Zack and Cloud the best possible advice.

                It’s time, though, now. It’s time to go. The cover story has been agreed upon, the course of action decided.

                This is the moment they’ll always remember, Aerith thinks, looking at Sephiroth’s breath in the cold mountain air. _We escaped. We actually escaped ShinRa._

                Sephiroth smiles grimly. “It’s almost over, but not quite,” he says. “Hojo, certainly, will be looking for me.”

                But Aerith can’t let herself think about that, not when Sephiroth’s warm arms are around her. She can hold herself back no longer—she wraps her arms around his neck stands on her toes to kiss him. Their kiss is deep, loving—it says everything that they can’t quite manage to sum up in words. Their kiss is a promise, and with it, a bond.

                Finally, they leave, Sephiroth using one of the spare SOLDIER swords that Zack had brought just in case anything bothered them on their passage through the other side of the mountain, but they’re lucky and before they know it, Rocket Town is in sight.

                “Is it going to be okay?” Aerith asks suddenly, as they begin to walk towards Rocket Town. It’s their first stop on the journey that will take them to Icicle Inn, where they’ll be waiting to hear from the others.

                “I don’t know what it is going to be,” Sephiroth admits. “But there’s a chance, now. There is a real chance that someone can do what I never could. They may be able to stop this whole thing, stop ShinRa, and give the Planet back.”

                Their disguises are ready, and as they get ready to cross over to Rocket Town, they kiss once more, for luck. For promises. For always being together.

                And then, hand in hand, they walk towards their destiny together--finally, together.

 

* * *

 

the end


	11. EPILOGUE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an epilogue - once Aerith and Sephiroth reach Icicle Inn undetected. I'm considering writing a sequel to this, where Genesis and Co. come back up to Icicle Inn to push Aerith and Sephiroth into fighting ShinRa as well, but - this is where we are for now. Thanks so much for joining me on this, you guys have been amazing. Feedback is always extremely appreciated, and if anyone has any requests or ideas for next time, I'm all ears.

                “It’s on!” Aerith shouts from the tiny little room for rent in Icicle Inn. This was the very place that her mother and Professor Gast had stayed twenty years ago, and for Aerith it’s as much of a home as any place could be.

                Sephiroth is in the living room in a moment, fast and graceful as he was before. He sits next to Aerith and their eyes are glued to the ShinRa channel on their television, just like almost every other person with a television set right now.

                It’s an interior shot of a church, packed full with mourners. At the front there’s no casket, but a table that holds an urn and Masamune, with a single spotlight on them.

                “Wonder what’s in the urn,” Aerith says idly.

                Sephiroth is staring at the faces of the mourners, torn between morbid curiosity and disgust. The weird shrine they have to him up front, the somber faces...it's surreal. Hojo—the President—Lazard. Most of ShinRa has shown up, and the ones who aren’t there are doing guard duty outside his funeral.

                Hojo looks mostly angry, but Sephiroth sees real pain written across Lazard’s face. “I wish we could have warned Lazard,” he says heavily. “He tried his best.”

                Aerith curls up with him, and he finds her touch as wordlessly soothing as it’s always been.

                Genesis steps up to a wooden podium, his red uniform immaculate. His eyes look weary, tired, and he closes them for a long moment before beginning, like the pain of the moment is too much for him.

                Sephiroth can’t help but snort. “Genesis should have been on the stage.”

                “What can I say,” Genesis begins thickly, “about my dearest friend, Sephiroth? Most of you know him as the Silver General, the Demon of Wutai who led our army to its greatest victories. But to me, he was always someone I could speak to about anything, could trust with any worry.”

                This eulogy, Sephiroth recognizes, is half acting, half apology. It’s what Genesis _wishes_ had been true, for all the time they worked together.

                “General Sephiroth gave his life fighting anti-ShinRa troops up in the mountains of Nibelheim,” Genesis says gravely. “I had been sick, and I was seriously injured. Most would have left me to die—but Sephiroth—he never left a man behind, not if he could help it. And he would never have left a friend.”

                Genesis details Sephiroth’s daring rescue and eventual murder, splashing the story with salacious details that were definitely not in the agreed-upon version. “Sephiroth was a risk-taker, but he loved his friends,” he adds. “On that mountainside, Sephiroth looked to me, a tear in his bright green eye—”

                “Oh, gods,” Sephiroth groans. “Turn this off.”

                Aerith was the one who insisted they watch this, asking Sephiroth how many people actually get a chance to see their own funeral?

                “No!” she exclaims, quickly trying to hide the remote. Sephiroth is too fast for her, he always is—even without the Jenova cells, he is still the single most mako-enhanced individual the Planet has ever known.

                It devolves into a dedicated wrestling match, and then they’re suddenly kissing again, wrapping their arms around each other, every action clearly stating _can you believe how lucky we are?_

                Genesis carries on in the background, but by the time Zack guides him offstage with a strategic pinch that would have gone unseen by anyone except Sephiroth—Aerith and Sephiroth are not paying attention anymore, in fact, they aren’t even in the living room.

 

* * *

 

                When the first reactor explodes, Aerith just _knows_. She tells Sephiroth, and he listens, because he always listens, but privately he wonders if she’s overreacting.

                The newspapers the next day blame a terrorist cell, and after Aerith leaves to go to the grocery store, Sephiroth’s PHS rings. He has to stop himself from answering “Sephiroth” with a snap, the way he always used to.

                “Hello?”

                “It’s me.” Genesis never announced himself even before this, always believing everyone should recognize his voice. “Shall we kill the President first, or do the reactors first? There’s some dissension—even though _I know what I’m doing—_ ”

                “Take down a few reactors to show you mean business. Only go after the heads of ShinRa once everyone in your company is flawlessly ready. You can show no weakness,” Sephiroth instructs, feeling strangely separate, as if his head and body are in two completely different situations. “Kill the President first, but Hojo will always be the most dangerous. In fact, I would kill the President and Hojo at the same time, and then let the rest of the department heads respond the next day. They may surrender at that point.”

                They discuss it back and forth for a few moments, Sephiroth trying to impart as much wisdom in their few short moments as he possibly can.

                Genesis’s voice is quiet, suddenly. “This should be you,” he says. “I’m good, Sephiroth, but we all know that this should be you.”

                For a moment, Sephiroth believes it too, he aches to be back in the heat of battle, with Masamune in his hand and a clearly defined goal to strive for. Suddenly he’s making calculations, wondering if he could go back and help them out and then come right back to Icicle Inn—

                “It _could_ have been me,” Sephiroth agrees. “But you will do great things, Genesis. You are going to save the world.”

                Aerith comes home just as they hang up the phone. “Gen?” she asks, starting to put groceries away, and it’s so _domestic_ that it makes Sephiroth’s heart ache with a contentment he didn’t know he was capable of.

                “He says they need me,” Sephiroth says.

                “Everyone needs you,” Aerith responds, smiling. “You’re the best there is, love.”

                Sephiroth and Aerith are quiet for a moment, the companionable silence stretching comfortably between them. “Are you tired of hiding?” Aerith asks quietly.

                Sephiroth looks at her thoughtfully. “Not really.”

                “Braiding your hair up every time we leave…wearing one of those scarves over it. Are you tired of not being—well, not being _you_?” Aerith hops on the counter, sitting there so that her eyes are a few inches above his.

                Sephiroth smiles ruefully. “Aerith, the ‘Silver General’ was never that great.”

                She looks personally offended, and he can’t help but smile. “I love you.”

                “I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

That evening, their bedroom dark, their voices thick with sleep:

                “What’s going to happen now, Seph?”

                “Ask Gaia.”

                “She doesn’t speak to me much these days. You try.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous.”

                “No, really, try.”

                “Gaia?—Are you there?”

                Silence. Giggling.

                “Good news. She says everything is going to work out just fine.”

                “Wait, really?”

                “Does that really sound like either of us? When have things ever been just fine?”

                “They’re not bad now, my love.”

                More laughter.

                “Gaia says things are only going to get better.”

                “Really?”

                “Absolutely not.”


End file.
